Finest
by Semebay
Summary: Arthur Kirkland was one of their finest. Alfred Jones was an unknown nobody. One was attracted to the law, while the other was testing how far he could go without getting caught. Started as Police/Criminal AU. Changes halfway in.
1. Chapter 1

This is one of my olders fics that I'm tossing up here. I haven't looked over it too much for grammar and such, but I'll hopefully do that in the future (and when that is done, this message will disappear). There are twenty parts to this, so I'll be updating every Monday and Thursday for the next ten weeks. I hope you enjoy! Feel free to review if you'd like. I'm not holding you to it.

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><p>There was no indication that the fair-haired American was up to no good. He waved at pedestrians, set his sunglasses on the top of his head, and disappeared into a parking garage.<p>

He hummed as he took the stairs, letting his gloved hand slide along the cold metal rail. He passed the first two floors and settled on the third, walking out and looking around.

There were still two floors above, but he didn't want to get caught on the roof, and the fourth floor wouldn't have been a good selection of cars.

The third level was the best.

He whistled as he worked, checking a piece of paper in his pocket and comparing it to the cars before him. When he saw exactly what he wanted, he easily slipped a foldable piece of steel in between the window and the door, humming and waiting for the click that would tell him he had found his way in.

It took less than ten seconds to get the click, and he nodded to himself, pleased with the work. It took roughly the same amount of time to climb in the car and pull out the wires in the dash, starting the car and searching for the key card that was its admittance ticket. He pulled a pair of sunglasses (aviators) from his pocket and slipped them on, humming to himself as he backed out of the parking space and slowly made his way down to the ground level, and then out onto the streets.

And no one had any idea.

Arthur Kirkland was a very disagreeable man. He was combative, foul-mouthed and rude (and he was a terrible drunk).

But he was good at his job.

He was ruthless, strict, and set in his ways. And he had never failed a case (though there was speculation that the case Ted Stevens had bungled had originally been his).

But he had his redeeming qualities. He was nice to women. He could be fair when he found it in himself.

And he had an answer to everything:

"We're working on it."

The man standing before Arthur's desk flushed with anger as the police officer flipped through his papers, eyes narrowed in thought while he searched.

"In what way are you working on it?" the man demanded, wiping his wide forehead with a piece of cloth. "You're here, sitting on your ass and reading some papers!"

"It takes more than a day to find a criminal, especially one as… skilled, as he is." Arthur mentally patted himself on the back. He hadn't even hit the man this time!

"You're saying that your department is being outsmarted by a criminal?" the man snapped.

Arthur finally decided to look up. He carefully removed his glasses and set his papers down, clasping his hands and resting them on the desk before him. He remained silent, staring at the pudgy man and watching as he wiped his face and neck with the same sweat-stained cloth, sweating profusely under the lights of the department. He took in everything: the green slacks, the black dress shoes, the green tie and jacket, white shirt, ugly mug, the narrowed brown eyes.

He hated dealing with rich people. So infuriating.

Arthur leaned back in his chair and waited, watching the other man patiently. The other's face was becoming darker and sweatier with every passing second, but it was on account of the lights; unluckily, it wasn't because of Arthur's seemingly unnatural ability to make everyone cringe before the contempt of his glare.

In fact, the oaf before him seemed immune to the stare. He met it with his own expression of impatience and a holier-than-thou attitude, one that indicated that he was better than Arthur, better then everyone.

Arthur's glare deepened. He hated the man before him.

"What I meant," Arthur enunciated every word, as though he were talking to a toddler, "is he's experienced. No person with half a brain becomes a thief. Now, I understand your concerns, but you need to leave so that I can do my job."

"But my-"

"Your missing car is not the only thing in the world!" Arthur snapped. "There are three ongoing murder investigations, a hit-and-run, three armed robberies, and twelve domestic disputes. That doesn't include the missing persons reports, which have been steadily piling up. You waited three days to report your car stolen; it's now the least of my concerns. Buy another one! Now go away, and let me do my job!"

The oaf seemed to swell with anger, but when Arthur ignored him in favor of his paperwork, the man noisily snatched his hat from the desk and stormed from the room.

Arthur watched the man's shrinking back with disgust, his eyes narrowed as one of the secretaries looked through one of the large windows of his office, concerned and a bit frightened. He didn't even have to wait a minute before the phone on his desk buzzed, and he hit the speaker button.

"Do I even need to tell you?" the muffled voice on the speaker said, and Arthur scowled. The secretary hurried back to her seat to answer her phone.

"Something wrong?" Arthur tried to sound innocent (rather, he just acted as he always did), and the voice sighed.

"Take a walk, Kirkland. Hand the theft case over to Bonnefoy while you're at it."

"Yes sir," Arthur said, and he was all too happy to gather up the case folder and tape it shut, scrawling Bonnefoy across the front in his neat handwriting. The voice cut off and he clicked the power button on the speaker before standing and heading to the door.

The department was a simple place, but it was always buzzing with work and chatter. Arthur stepped out of his office, past his secretary's desk, and into a long hallway lined with doors. The walls were a bright white, the doors grey metal, and he could hear the clicking of keys and the mumble of low voices on phones within the offices.

He walked down the hall, into the large open area that had the cubicles and a couple more offices. People were typing on computers and talking on the phone here as well, but none had any need for real privacy, like the workers in the offices (the ones in charge of finances and true criminals, the ones that had to deal with classified information and annoying shite like that). Most of them went through case files, organized reports, and found themselves bored out of their skulls and fleeing for a pub as soon as the clock struck five.

Arthur couldn't imagine typing on a computer all day, the same repetitive numbers and letters being entered for each case, the same chair day after day after day. He hated the paperwork that was in on his desk, but at least he was doing something. When he thought he had found something, he could take it and go back to the scene, take a look around, get the fuck out of the building and get a bit of air. He didn't have to worry about the same damned computer waiting at his desk for him to enter three characters, press F5, then click the flashing little number, press F7, and repeat the process a hundred fucking times a day (he had done that his first year on the job, and had almost choked his supervisor in a fit of anger. It was something everyone had tried to forget).

Arthur scanned the heads in the room, looking for the familiar blond that had had been a pain in his backside for the last three years. He frowned when he didn't see him (not put out, of course; just annoyed that his search had to continue, thereby increasing his workload), and he continued down the aisle along the wall, continuing towards the stairs that led down to the cafeteria and the jail.

Then someone grabbed his ass and squeezed.

"You fucking wanker, keep your hands off me!" Arthur snapped as he turned, his green eyes narrowed as he watched Francis with contempt.

The Frenchman shrugged and leaned against the wall, ignoring the amused glances cast in their direction. In the boring office setting, everyone delighted in the fights between the two; it was a way to kill both time and boredom.

"But you were looking for me, no?" Francis grinned, that smug look of satisfaction that Arthur had always wanted to smother with a pillow (or drown in a mud pit). The Brit glared, slapping Francis's hand away with the folder when he tried to reach out for another grab. "And what other reason would you look for me, if not for-"

"Belt up!" Arthur snapped, clenching his fist and crumpling the folder at the same time. "So help me, I'll kick you in the ass so hard that you won't need a woman to suck your-"

"Kirkland, Bonnefoy," a voice called, and the two looked up. The chief was watching them from the doorway across from the hall of offices, and he did not look amused (or he hid it really well). The sound of typing grew as the people in the room picked up their work once more, none wanting to be caught watching the fight.

Arthur grit his teeth and shoved the folder at Francis, then walked back towards the hall and to his office. He didn't bother speaking to his secretary; he simply locked himself in his office and dove into his work, poring over the case files from the murder case two weeks prior.

Alfred F. Jones had come to a conclusion.

Cops were boring.

Plain, bland, uninteresting, boring.

Alfred leafed through his newspaper, humming as he checked for coupons. He paused to read through some of the articles, his attention lingering on one about some officer or investigation or something like that. Something about a murder, he didn't really know.

He nodded to the waitress as she set a cup down on his table, and he flashed her one of his smiles. She smiled softly in response and scurried back inside, to her customers at the tables within, and he returned to his sandwich. He held his paper open with one hand as he ate with the other, his burger tasting awesome alongside the cola, and he let his eyes follow a fat lard that was leaving the police station, sweating profusely and wiping his face and neck with some grime-covered rag.

"Fat pig," Alfred grumbled as he bit into his burger again, this time with far more vigor. He hadn't felt more alive than when he had pushed the pig's car off a bridge and into the river, but only after carving a nice little parting gift into the hood. He wanted the cops to find it soon, but they were (of course) sitting on their asses in there, probably eating donuts and drinking coffee. It made his stomach churn thinking about it (or maybe that was just hunger).

He watched as the rich bastard climbed into the limo waiting outside the brick building and then the limo left, Alfred's glare following it from behind his newspaper. He pulled his eyes away quickly when he heard the petite waitress returning, her low heels clicking on the flagstone. He smiled at her, and noticed she was walking towards a couple a few tables behind him.

"When you're done, could I get another soda?"

The waitress nodded with a smile and he returned to his paper, whistling and taking another bite of his burger. He had to do bigger and better things, otherwise no one would take notice. He had to make himself known, show them that there was another player on the streets, someone that could become a pain in the ass rather quickly. It was almost a game; how quickly could he make himself known, how quickly could what he did be recognized and attributed to him, without him actually being identified?

He folded up his paper and set it down on the table while he waited for his drink, sending another look towards the police station.

Bigger and better things.


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur felt that there was something to be said about his character:

He never hit people that were innocent (Francis was never innocent).

He never acted rudely towards women.

He had never killed anyone while on duty or off.

But someone was going to be on the receiving end of a gun if there were going to be more phone calls at one in the morning.

Arthur looked over the top of his pillow groggily, the view before him seeming to tremble. The bright red letters on his alarm clock faded in and out in his vision, and he desperately hoped that he was looking at a seven instead of a one. The phone rang out once again, the shrill chime threatening to render him deaf. He reached towards the table clumsily, knocking the alarm clock to the floor before finally wrapping his fingers around the phone and tugging it towards him.

"If this is a prank call, I'm finding you and beating your arse until you're pissing blood," Arthur growled into the phone, shutting his eyes and trying to forget about the likely-broken alarm clock on the floor.

"Nice to know your sense of humor is intact when you're sleeping," a voice said dryly, and Arthur had to resist the temptation to smother himself with his pillow.

"Hullo, boss."

"We just received some more information from the abductions you were looking into," the man on the other end of the line told him. "I'd like you to-"

"Today's my day off," Arthur grumbled. "If I'm coming in, at all, it will be at a reasonable hour when people are actually supposed to be awake, instead of this shite you seem to think is funny."

There was silence on the other end of the line, and then the other continued. "I'm reassigning the theft investigation to you," he said, and his words were met with a groan and a curse.

"Bu' I gave it t' th' frog last week," Arthur grumbled.

"I'm giving him your hit-and-run case. You're going to spend most of your time on the theft-"

"I'm not dealing with rich pigs."

"You're dealing with this one. He's lost a couple more cars, and a friend of his reported a break-in three times."

"Why am I s'pposed to care?"

"The same person does it each time; we're sure of that. It sounds like a stalker-"

"Because he's that bloody attractive-"

"He has money. That's why he's a target. Now wake up and get the hell in here."

The line went dead, and Arthur groaned. "Son of a bitch," he mumbled, then he dropped the phone off the side of the bed.

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><p>Alfred ate his pancakes contentedly, his eyes straying to the police station every few minutes. Nothing had been done after his numerous visits to the various houses of his… <em>friend<em>, and he wondered if anyone was bothering to look for him.

Hell, he wondered if he had even been reported. The cops were really slacking, and he wondered if they would ever start paying attention to the man right under their nose, and, more often than not, in their conversations.

He had traded his burger for pancakes, and his cola for coffee, and instead of his normal newspaper he was reading through a magazine, trying to figure out exactly what was going through the minds of the politicians featured within. He hummed as he flipped through the pages, pausing to do the word search and crossword within, then looked up when he heard grumbles and curses from the table across the patio.

A blond man was settling into a chair, dropping a couple folders before him and glaring at the pile as though to challenge it. He had dark bags under his eyes and Alfred turned back a few pages in his magazine, discretely looking up and observing the black pants and white shirt. He stopped flipping through the magazine and looked down at the picture. Arthur Kirkland. The cop with the attitude. The cop that nobody wanted to meet, simply because he was a pain in the ass.

The perfect one for his plans to work.

Alfred would have grinned had he been alone. But he couldn't bring attention to himself. He turned his attention back to his plate, spreading the syrup (Matt would've cried at how thick it was) over the top of his pancakes and listening.

"Work again, Mr. Kirkland?" The pretty waitress was standing by Arthur's table, setting down a cup of tea and a plate of scones.

"Rich bastard's been on my case about some missing property," the Brit answered her, sounding very disgruntled. "Why the hell should I care about his car? I have more important things to do!"

The waitress simply giggled and left him.

And Alfred felt the corners of his mouth lift into a small smile, one of excitement and the knowledge that his plan had already begun, without the knowledge of the victim or the intent of the "planner".

* * *

><p>"I found some pictures of you online."<p>

Arthur almost hit the man before him, wanting to erase the distinct accent from his memory, preferably after drowning him in the nearest lake.

"I found quite a few, actually," Francis continued, and he apparently had them printed out to prove it. "You've been attending quite a few parties lately, I take it."

"I don't need a stalker, Bonnefoy," Arthur snapped. He snatched the envelope of pictures from the Frenchman, intent on dropping them into the nearest document shredder.

"What you need is to find a stalker."

Arthur groaned internally.

"Mr. Edelstein, sir!" Francis greeted as their boss joined them, casting a look in Arthur's direction.

"Don't give me that!" Arthur snapped. "I got here at three this morning to get those damn files, sans tea or breakfast, and today is my day off! I don't want to hear it!"

Roderich frowned, and Arthur left for his office before the man could continue.

The first thing he did was reach into the cabinet by the door and grab a bottle of painkillers for the familiar pressure that was soon to give way to a migraine. He knocked a couple back, returned the bottle to the cabinet, then slumped into the chair behind his desk.

He hated his office. It was empty save for the two filing cabinets and the desk and his desk. The window was tiny, and he could barely see the streets below. The department itself was also a pain in the ass:, and Francis's presence was reason enough (and the git had hidden the teapot, leaving only the coffee maker—disgusting). Sometimes he wondered about his choice in becoming an officer, but he couldn't imagine doing anything else; after the shit he had been through, with catching criminals and getting into fights, everything else seemed so boring.

Arthur flipped open the envelope and pulled out the pictures, leafing through them with a frown. There were URLs on some of the pictures and he wondered if he should try to get them taken down from whatever sites they were posted on (not that it would matter; no one would recognize him with what he was wearing. He idly wondered how the hell Francis had known it was him).

"Mr. Kirkland, phone call."

Arthur looked up as the secretary peeked into the room, and he waved her away as he picked up his phone, dropping the pictures on his desk.

"Talk."

"We have a problem downstairs, and-"

"Got it." Arthur didn't wait for an answer. He simply hung up the phone. He groaned and rubbed his temples with his fingers, silently praying for a sniper or mercenary to take him from the next building over (it was a bakery-type place, but who needed the details?). Then he grabbed the pictures, dropped them in his shredder, and left the room.

The secretary smiled weakly as he passed her, and he knocked on a door, pausing outside to shout in. "Beilschmidt, get your ass downstairs!"

There were curses and thumps as the man in the office got himself together and yanked the door open, glaring at Arthur.

"What?" he demanded.

"The usual." Arthur didn't bother waiting for his reply. He had already moved on, checking his watch and pushing through another door into the stairway. He descended the stairs slowly, letting his hand slide down that railing as he hummed to himself. He pushed through another door into the darkness of the basement, turning to travel down the dimly lit hallway that had no doors, but had a desk at the far end, situated before yet another door that led to the jail cells. The man sitting at the desk was leaning down over his papers, and he never looked up as Arthur strode past the metal chairs and fake plants. The man simply held up a folder and Arthur grabbed it, then shoved his key into the lock and pushed the door open.

"Beilschmidt'll be down in a minute," Arthur said, and the man nodded.

Arthur continued past the door and into another hall, though this one was lined with iron bars and smelled oddly like a hospital.

"Long time no see, Captain Kirk!"

Arthur scowled at the people waiting in the cell at the end of the hall. "Didn't I tell you about the finer points of castration when you used that one on me last time?"

"Who knows?" The man laughed, but his friend didn't appear as amused by the comment. In fact, he looked rather pale at the thought of Arthur going anywhere near him.

"Gilbert!"

"About time, Beilschmidt," Arthur muttered when the door burst open. Ludwig was out of breath, glaring in the cell at his brother and company.

"What the hell did you do?" Ludwig demanded, and Arthur cleared his throat.

"Public nudity, public drunkenness, sexual harassment-"

"Just because she couldn't handle my five meters-"

"-obstruction of justice, interfering with an officer-"

"-and he couldn't handle my five meters either!"

"-and resisting arrest."

Arthur looked over at Ludwig, who looked as though he was caught between murdering his brother and crawling in a hole to die. "Is he sleeping in a cell tonight?"

"Leaving him with Antonio would make it seem like a reward," Ludwig grumbled, casting a dark look in his brother's direction.

"We could separate them."

"Let's do that. If Lovino decides to pay bail for him," Ludwig pointed at the Spaniard, "then I might consider paying for Gilbert."

"Sounds good to me," Arthur said, and he turned on his heel, Ludwig following him from the jail cells as the two friends called out to them.

"C'mon, Lud! Don't deny my awe-"

His cry was cut off by the slamming of a door.

* * *

><p>Alfred was really beginning to get pissed off. The Kirkland guy? Total stick in the mud. Pain in the ass. Every description that could be used to describe someone boring, self-centered, "egotistical" (Matt had told him that word), and a pain in the ass to follow around.<p>

Because he had been following the guy. For three days.

And he had never hated the justice system more.

He wondered how Kirkland had become a cop. There was the whole unprovoked assault in front of the police station (he had just hit some French guy that had asked for directions somewhere, or something like that); there were all the times he left the police station (he counted seven times in fifty-seven minutes) to visit the nearby café; there was the complete lack of ethics (who called someone a bloody-fucking-git when all they did was got you a cup of coffee? He had noticed the guy was French, too); and he was racist against French people (wait, maybe the two French guys before were the same guy; he couldn't tell through the roses that they had flounced around).

Add to that the fact that Kirkland simply seemed to sit on his ass all day. He had spent hours in the bakery across the street, up on the third floor where no one would find him, watching the guy's office with a pair of binoculars. They guy had looked at some weird pictures (he was probably gay or something, the pictures were pretty… he didn't dare say hot, but the guy in the pictures could get away with wearing leather), shredded them, then shouted at someone on the phone and left. Then he'd returned a little later, looking disgruntled and pissed, and he'd kicked the chair in front of his desk before sitting in the one behind it.

Alfred grumbled something under his breath and took a bite from the burger in his hand, being careful to catch the crumbs on a napkin. No one had come up to the upper floors in a couple years, but he couldn't be too careful.

"An old man," Alfred added to his list of observations about the guy. He had to be ancient, after all. For him to not catch on, after this long?

"Completely useless as a cop," Alfred decided. Not finding anything after two stolen limos, a missing Rolls Royce, and seven break ins was a bit annoying. "Looks rich… Bastard. Probably in on it. Damn it."

Apparently, his bigger wasn't big enough.


	3. Chapter 3

Alfred slapped his hands against his legs, flexing his fingers while he stared at the large gate before him. There were no cameras in that particular location, and there was a short but thick tree to his right, perfect for climbing up and getting over the fence.

His black clothes allowed him to blend into the night, but it wasn't as though he needed them outside. After all, no one drove in this area around two in the morning. And with no moon in the sky, the darkness would hide him even if he wore bright white robes.

He slipped his gloves on and flexed his fingers once more, then marched over to the tree and grasped one of the lower branches.

Alfred wished he could claim that he had effortlessly hopped up into the high branches and swung himself over the gate and into the lion's den, but sadly, he had long learned that such stunts were only in the movies and in the gyms of some of California's and China's finest martial arts and gymnastics centers. And those performing the stunts were usually limber and quick, whereas he was rather built, and a bit tall.

The best he could hope to do was grab onto the branch and slowly walk his legs up the trunk of the tree, until he could contort himself into a position where he was able to straddle the think limb above and then proceed to climb towards the top using the branches like the rungs of a ladder. He was proud to say that he did have an endurance that seemed almost inhuman at times. He climbed steadily, not too fast but not too slow, and soon found himself above the fence, inching out carefully on a branch and looking warily towards his prize.

The fence was a bitch. He hated it. He also hated to admit the fear that raced through his veins when he found himself on the branch directly above it, looking down onto the sharp points that were spread every few inches along the top. He didn't want to imagine the pain he would suffer if he were to fall, or if the branch were to snap; he had felt the pain of a bullet in his chest before, and he couldn't picture falling below and impaling himself on the fine points that were meant for decoration but could easily pass as a lethal defensive device.

Alfred wished they hadn't put up the cameras in the places where he had entered before, but it was an unavoidable consequence of his work. His repeated visits were noticed (sometimes he intentionally made himself known), and he couldn't just leave the place alone. He had to finish the job.

Alfred slowly lowered his foot and inched it between the points, applying a little pressure and trying to lighten the weight on the branch. He took a deep breath, silently wished that he could still climb over the "safe" part of the fence, and let go of the branch.

Alfred kept his mouth shut when he fell, and congratulated himself when the only sound he made was a thump upon landing. He further congratulated himself on not gasping or shouting when the point of the fence tore a hole in his shirt. He was careful to look back up at the fence, reaching up with a gloved hand to check for any fabric remnants, and then scoured the ground to be sure that nothing could connect him with the crime.

There was a single piece of black fabric, roughly a half-inch long, and Alfred shoved it in his pocket before moving on.

His knees had stopped shaking on the second trip, when he was finally used to the suffocating silence that he had to become a part of. He had done dangerous things before, yes, but tasks that required absolute silence and an inhuman ability to blend in with the darkness? Those had been completely new to him. He still felt apprehension when his heart pounded in his head, still looked around with fear from the paranoid belief that dogs and security guards could hear the pounding, and would appear in seconds to shoot him and blast open his skull.

He was doing something dangerous, but at the same time it was exhilarating, and so right. Brushing past shrubs, and trees and tiny stone statues seemed so right, and he found that there were some parts of the infiltrations that he enjoyed, as though he were a child playing hide-and-seek with his friends once more (even if he was doing both the hiding and the seeking).

Alfred was suddenly torn from his thoughts when he heard a low rumble, like the hum of an engine, and he ducked down behind a boxwood as his beating heart began to speed up, his fingers tingling with the adrenaline that was coursing through his blood. He kept his mouth shut, feared that whatever was out there would hear his breathing, then he slowly looked through the tangle of branches in the shrub, at the same time pulling the hood attached to his sweatshirt over his head.

A water set-up. Miniature waterfall, tiny streams, filters, hoses, the works. There were even little speakers set into the stone of the waterfall, to emit a loud roar and make the water seem deeper and faster than it already was.

Alfred would have laughed at his panic had he been elsewhere. Maybe he would laugh at it later, when he was back with Eduard and checking out movies and the pictures from the break in, and all that fun stuff. He steeled his nerves and moved around the perimeter of the water set-up, refusing to remove his hood and not stepping near the lights that were beneath the surface of the fake stream. He found his way over to a large trellis that wrapped around the house and chose that time to look back over the large backyard he had snuck through as he pulled out his phone. The trees and shrubs looked intimidating in the night, and he shivered. Everything seemed so intimidating when night fell.

"Stone, I'm at a trellis behind the house," Alfred whispered when the phone was answered. He could hear the distinct sound of clicking keyboard keys, then he was answered.

"Climb it. You're on the opposite end of the house from the bedrooms, and there shouldn't be any cameras."

"Right."

Alfred pocketed the phone carefully, then he gripped the wooden trellis before him and began to climb.

The damn thing shook. Alfred was shivering as he climbed, the cold and the thought of discovery further exciting his senses while at the same time he thought of discovery and death, and the possibility that the trellis would collapse beneath him. He could hear nothing but the creak of the trellis as he climbed. He hated the creak, could almost see a pair of eyes watching him from the window above as the frogs and the crickets remained silent, waiting for the inevitable click of a chamber shifting, and the explosion as the bullet rocketed down the barrel and into Alfred's forehead.

The climb didn't take twenty seconds, but it felt like hours. He finally reached the top and swallowed, peering in through the window and trying to see who (if anyone) was inside, waiting for him with a gun or a lead pipe. He saw nothing, and slowly, ever so slowly, he slid a pocket knife in between the window and the frame, jiggled it, and then used his gloved fingers to push the window up and open.

His heart threatened to burst from his chest as he set one foot down on the floor, then the second, his body following slowly. He looked around once more, still waiting for the breaths of someone that was not himself. Hearing and seeing nothing (again), he crept forward, gently touching his fingers to a partially opened door and pushing it open farther.

A computer.

A mother-fucking computer.

He almost cried right there, at the thought that finally, finally he would be able to get what he needed, and he would be able to stop coming here, stop risking his neck in those other rooms and the other houses, and the cars…

He scanned the room before creeping forward, digging through his pockets for a small USB drive and plugging it into the port. He then started the computer, hoped the volume was off, and waited.

The introduction screen didn't even pop up. The computer went straight to a deep red screen (crimson, like blood) and requested a password. Alfred quickly tapped on the keyboard, AmBgUsA, and then a download bar appeared and an animated ball began to go back and forth on the screen.

Waiting was boring and nerve-wracking.

Alfred watched the screen in silence, waiting for the door to open and for his end to come, waiting for his inevitable discovery.

Then his phone vibrated, and he almost shouted with surprise.

His heart thudded painfully against his ribs, and he dug through his pocket, passing the phone he had used to call Eduard in favor of a slider. He slid it open and raised it to his ear, his voice low and words slurred.

"Matt?" Alfred groaned, trying to make it sound like he had just woken. He looked from the computer to the door, then back to the computer. "Th' fuck? Y' know wha' time 't is?"

"Shit!" his brother cursed on the other end. "Sorry! Just, time zones and parties and stuff… Should I call back?"

"Well, 'm 'wake," Alfred murmured, watching as the download bar reached thirty-seven percent.

"Okay… Well, I was just thinking about work yesterday, and thought I'd call and see how you were doing. You still in the Middle East?"

"Mmm… Nah. No. Naw, I mean, got out… couple months 'go? Said I should "take it easy" 'r somethin'… You still in Seattle?"

"Yeah. I found this bar here, and someone invited me out… Anyways… How are you?"

Alfred was silent, watching as the bar slowly shifted to sixty-four. "Got an easy story t' do. Somethin' bout the local night life 'r some shit. Drugs 'n' stuff. Exposé 'r somethin'." Alfred yawned for good measure.

"I'll call you back tomorrow," Matthew suddenly said. "I shouldn't keep you up. You have work tomorrow."

Before Alfred could say goodbye, he had hung up.

The download bar hit eighty-nine.

And a door down the hall opened.

Alfred stiffened and tried to remember what Eduard had said. The USB was downloading the entire computer; even if it was at fifty percent, they would get data. It was at ninety-two percent. Eduard had told him not to get caught.

Destroy it.

Alfred pulled the USB from the computer and shoved it back in his pocket, ignoring the error message that (soundlessly) popped up. He could hear movement in the hall, and he remembered the blueprints he had checked. The bathroom was in the room next to the office.

He couldn't take that chance. He couldn't let them find him.

The steps were closer, and he pulled the hood all the way down, the attached mask covering his face and leaving only his eyes (and colored contacts) visible. He ducked down behind the computer desk, trying to squeeze into the tiny place, and he pulled the power plug.

The faint light that had bathed the room from the computer screen was killed.

And the person in the hallway shut the bathroom door.

Alfred didn't dare let himself breathe out in relief. He was already pulling cords from the back of the computer tower, unscrewing the monitor and pulling the tower behind the desk. He spied a weird black box on the top of the desk and pocketed it, then turned to the window behind him. With quick fingers he nudged the window open, waited for a squeak of wood scraping wood that never came, then he slowly let his legs balance on the trellis outside, before he hefted up the tower and balanced it in the window.

The trellis creaked.

The bathroom door flew open, and someone was running to the computer room.

Alfred didn't think. Adrenaline blinded him, and he thought only of escape. The tower fell from his hands and to the paved paths below, crashing into the ground and shattering as someone shouted inside the house. Alfred climbed as fast as he could down the trellis, his hands trembling as fear filled his mind, and he dropped the last few feet, letting go and stumbling on the ground.

He was running. His leg hurt, he had done something to it, had to get away, between the trees, the bushes, through the water, _bang-gunfire?_ into a tree, fighting to get his balance, _foot hurts,_ trying to crawl up, _Christ Christ Christ just hit tree_, straddling a branch, _bullet, god bullets! Gonna die! _crawling out towards the other side, _pointy fence, impale, god don't let me-_

He fell.


	4. Chapter 4

Somewhere, someone was laughing at Arthur's misfortune.

He hadn't needed a phone call at two in the morning, demanding his presence on Shire Hill after a shooting had been reported.

He hadn't needed the coffee the chief had shoved at him, the one he had promptly dumped on the ground with a scowl.

And he most certainly hadn't needed the pain-in-the-ass "aristocrat" that seemed to think a crime could be solved without the police setting foot onto his property.

"Sir, if you don't let me on the property to investigate, then I'm not going to stay. The fact of the matter is, I can't look at your house and tell you who broke in, or what they were doing. I can't begin to guess what kind of gun he used when you refuse to let me collect evidence, and as such, I can't begin to guess what he looks like, who he is, or if he is even a he. Now, are you going to let me-"

"This is why everyone hates you cops!" the oaf before Arthur shouted, and his scowl deepened. "You're not offering protection, you're refusing to make arrests-"

"I have no evidence! And I can't offer protection if I have no proof of an offense occurring-"

"There were gunshots!"

"So you say, but there's no evidence!" Arthur crossed his arms. Ethics be damned. "I am returning to the station. When you finally decide to let me do my job and investigate the scene of the crime, I will return. Until then, your lard will have to deflect any oncoming bullets."

Arthur turned away, ignoring the look of indignation that passed over the other's face. As an afterthought, he looked back.

"What was your name again?"

"David Smith!" the man shouted, his face flushing with anger. Arthur nodded and returned to his car, climbing in and groaning. He wondered if he would be able to get off early, so that he wouldn't have to deal with the same old shit.

One could only hope.

* * *

><p>Tea was the next best thing when your boss was an uptight prick that refused to accept the fact that alcohol had medicinal properties when one tried to bring it into the office.<p>

Arthur leaned forward on his desk, pushing the black rook forward and looking up at the person across from him.

She chewed on her bottom lip, narrowing her eyes thoughtfully as she tried to think of her next move. She reached a hesitant hand towards her pawn, then stopped midway and redirected to her knight. She paused once more, looking back and forth between the two before finally moving the pawn and taking one of Arthur's from the board.

"You left your king open to my queen," Arthur pointed out, and she hurriedly replaced the pawn and moved her knight instead. Arthur waited until she pulled her hand away, and he promptly took her pawn with his.

"You're better at this," she grumbled.

"You're the one that's gotten better," Arthur told her, watching as she moved her bishop to take one of his knights. "I'm simply changing my style of play to suit you."

"That's nice."

Arthur smirked. He wondered if her brother was aware of the sarcasm she possessed, and how she was constantly testing it on Arthur during their little chess contests. He looked back down to the board, then moved his pawn once more as Lili sipped her tea.

"What happened to the teapot?" she asked him as she looked down at the board, concentrating on her next move. "Why'd you use the coffeepot to boil the water?"

"Francis," Arthur said simply, and she nodded her understanding.

"It wouldn't be safe to use even if he did return it," she noted, and Arthur smiled.

She was beginning to figure things out.

Neither paid any mind to the footsteps outside in the hallway, and Lili didn't even look up when the door was thrown open and her older brother glared in at Arthur from the doorway.

"Francis has the day off," Arthur told him, finally reaching forward after Lili made her move. "He's not in here, believe me."

Vash nodded and seemed to relax slightly, but he watched his sister and Arthur closely.

Arthur sighed and motioned. "Tea, Vash?"

"Sure."

Arthur poured a cup of tea as Vash waited (im)patiently. He then slid it across the desk, and Vash nodded towards his younger sister. "How's she doing?"

"She could take on any child in the surrounding cities, possibly nationally in her age group," Arthur told him.

"But it's just a game," Lili said rather forcefully, smiling at her brother. He nodded without a word, and she turned back to Arthur. "Check."

Arthur contemplated his next move, wondering if he should be wary under the watchful eye of the girl's older brother. Well… Fuck it. "Checkmate," he told her, and she groaned.

"One more game!" she demanded, and Arthur nodded.

"Of course."

* * *

><p>"Al!"<p>

Alfred looked up in time for a woman to jump on him, as though she were trying to squeeze the life from his body. He coughed and tried to push her away, but she wasn't about to let him do that.

"Elizabeta, what d'you want?" Alfred demanded, and she stepped back, looking seriously at him and narrowing her eyes.

"Your brother."

Alfred frowned and glanced around. No one had bothered to look up and watch the meeting from their cubicles. Elizabeta's spontaneity was well-known around the office, and no one had really found anything wrong with it. It was best to just step aside and let her do as she pleased, and in the process avoid a rather painful confrontation with the frying pan that she kept in her desk for some odd reason.

"And what do you want my brother for?"

"Well, he's done that story in California, right? Bring him here! He can help you with that story on the drugs!"

Alfred chuckled and raised his right arm to scratch at his cheek, and Elizabeta's eyes grew wide. She reached forward and grasped his wrist, pulling it forward and making him wince in pain.

"What'd you do to your arm?" she gasped, pushing back his sleeve to reveal the bandages that ran from the palm of his hand to midway up his arm.

"Stupid shit," Alfred muttered. "Fire alarm when I was cooking. Dumped boiling milk all over me."

Elizabeta's eyes flitted up at him, and he could see something like pity in them. He was quick to continue.

"But it was no big deal. Just a burn. I don't want it to leave a mark, 'r I might not get that modelling gig!"

Elizabeta frowned and slapped the side of his head. "Yeah, yeah, Jones," she groaned. "Just remember to bring your head down from the clouds long enough to work on your little drug exposé." She gave him one last worried look before turning away and flouncing off to harass one of the Italians that worked in the neighboring office. She seemed intent on getting him to talk about Germans for some reason or other (something Alfred was never able to figure out), and she constantly giggled during her "interrogations".

Alfred had decided long ago that he didn't want to know.

He sighed and wandered back to his cubicle, sitting down and leaning back in his comfy leather office chair. No one paid him any mind, and it was just as well. It was probably a little unprofessional (and a little illegal) to be breaking into houses in addition to his day job, and if anyone noticed anything off, then he was seriously fucked.

He felt like kicking something. Alfred stared at his hand, the tan bandage that ran down its length and started up his arm. He couldn't really remember anything from the night two days prior. It was just the fear, and the fact that he had been shot at. He did remember pausing long enough to reach up and wipe the blood from the fence with a tattered sleeve, but beyond that?

Nothing.

He only remembered climbing the stairs to Eduard's apartment, breathing shallow and the adrenaline still coursing through him like a drug, as though he were still running through the streets in the Middle East, under fire and trying to stay with the troops that he had trusted with his life. Eduard had definitely freaked, but he was silent. He was always quiet like that. He had just taken him inside and sat him down, let him catch his breath, then he had cleaned up his arm.

Alcohol, ointment, antibiotics… It had hurt like a bitch. Looked like a bullet had run the length of his arm. But Eduard had said nothing as he cleaned him up. Just sat there. Smiled a little when Alfred had used his uninjured arm to pull out the USB and something Eduard called an external hard-drive.

But, of course, things didn't quite work out like they were supposed to.

"There's a lot on the drive, but it's nothing we can use. Just some e-mails. A chat program. Some kind of game. Part of the file, but I can't salvage it."

Alfred's heart had plummeted, and he had sat numbly on the futon, staring at the ground. "That means..?"

"We got everything _but_ what we needed from his computer." Eduard had looked back at him, almost apologetic (even though Alfred should have been the one to apologize). "The hard-drive only has pictures. Vacations, stuff like that. We didn't get anything."

It had been hard to accept that getting fired at, destroying a computer, and getting his arm torn up had all been for nothing. Hell, he still refused to accept it. But the facts were there.

He had put his ass on the line, and he had fucked everything up. He could have waited, just a couple seconds more, and he could have had all of the data. They hadn't known he was there. He had just been paranoid.

He should never have pressed his foot down on the trellis.

"Y'look tired, Jones," the man in the neighboring cubicle said with a grin, and Alfred gave him a weak smile.

"It's the drugs," he offered, and the other laughed.

Inside, Alfred cursed himself.

That fucking cop was definitely on Smith's side.

Alfred had figured that much out.

He had passed by after work, seen Kirkland talking to the bastard, and then leaving. Leaving! There had been an argument, too, probably about the broken computer. He hadn't really cared so much about that, but the corrupt shit going down in the police station was really pissing him off.

You just couldn't trust anybody anymore!

That was how Alfred found himself wandering around town, trying out sodas and hamburgers from various stores and checking out the movies that had recently arrived in theatres, trying to find some way to kill time and calm himself down. Eduard had picked up on his foul mood after the whole computer fiasco, the depressing and heavy atmosphere that had built up since, and the Estonian had insisted he get the hell out and do something before he popped.

So there he was, watching a kick-ass action movie (Bruce Willis, fuck yeah!), except that he wasn't really watching the action movie.

In fact, he was ignoring it completely as he dwelt on the happenings of the last few days. It had been four days since he had run out of that damned house, bleeding and without anything to show for his efforts, and he was still trying to get over it.

He had to do something to make his efforts worth it. There had to be some way to get the information, it had to be somewhere, even if it wasn't on a computer.

But maybe it was on a computer.

A computer in the residence of a Mr. Arthur Kirkland.

* * *

><p>So what if Eduard had called him a dumbass?<p>

So what if he was climbing into the window of a cop's rather large house, when said cop wasn't home?

He was getting the information he needed from the rich bastard. He had watched the house for a few days, seen the guys weird habits. Kirkland stayed mostly on the upper floor, had a few women come and go. Probably from some weird kinks or something. Who the fuck knew?

All Alfred knew was that he had to hurry and find the guy's computer. He wasted no time in turning the beast on, plugging in the USB and waiting for it to load. The thing looked rather new, but it also looked like it was covered in a fine layer of dust, something he couldn't put his mind on.

Alfred waited in silence, listening for the door. It was easier here; he didn't have to worry about the owner already in the house. He only had to think about the women (and a couple guys) that were somewhere in there. But he doubted that they were upstairs. They tended to stay downstairs.

Alfred waited for the USB to finish, and he looked around.

The guy had weird tastes, too. Everything looked ancient in the house. The old grandfather clock, the old bed, the wooden chair by the window. There was even an ancient bureau by the window (with a sizable space behind it, where he could hide in an emergency and escape).

Alfred breathed deeply through the mask over his face, and he removed the USB from the computer, looking through a stack of papers by the computer while he pocketed the drive. He finally moved to the back window, ready to slide back down the drainage pipe, when he heard a click. He ducked behind the bureau and peeked around the corner. There was no one in the bedroom, but through the door to the living room-

"I don't know what you're on, but I think you made a big mistake in coming here." The voice seemed to echo in the house, and Alfred felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. "This is a cop's house, and you're not going to find anything here but a bullet."

_Fuck._


	5. Chapter 5

Arthur felt rather insulted by the fact that someone had dared to break into his house. It was a serious breach of his personal space (and it was illegal; that was an important thing to remember). And his bedroom? Christ.

He knelt beside his door and silently pulled his gun from its holster, holding it before him. He could hear the faint breathing within the bedroom, could hear his computer running, and he peeked around the corner, keeping his body low to the ground.

The fucker wasn't in range. He couldn't shoot.

"I don't know what you're on, but I think you made a big mistake in coming here," Arthur found himself saying. The man inside his room made a sound, and then he was gone.

But he could still hear the breathing in the darkness of the room, past the overwhelming silence.

"This is a cop's house, and you're not going to find anything here but a bullet."

There was a sharp intake of breath, and Arthur narrowed his eyes. The little bitch had moved deeper into the room, away from the computer, and he was sure that the guy was hovering over by his window now.

"Do you know Katherine Walker?" Arthur asked, but there was no answer. There was no sound, either. It was hard to tell if the guy was confused or good at keeping his mouth shut (he imagined he was confused, as he wasn't very good at hiding his surprise, what with the gasps and the other odd noises he was giving off.

He wondered idly if the guy was the same one that had decided to fill his mailbox at work with threats and packages of questionable origin. He had had threats plenty of times before (he was just that kind of person), but no one had ever dared to enter his house.

As Arthur thought, then was a loud thump, and the window opened. He swung his leg around and aimed his gun, but there was no one in the room. There was a sound outside, and he could hear running as the intruder fled.

Arthur slowly stood and entered the room, gun raised in case there was someone else there.

But no one was there, and he was left staring at the window, the green curtains contorting and twisting in the wind that swept through the room.

* * *

><p>"I don't want to stay in a hotel."<p>

"You're obviously not staying here." Ludwig watched as the officers carefully moved through the bedroom, checking everything and dusting for prints and shoe markings.

"Let me restate that: I'm not staying in a hotel."

"You don't want to stay with me," Ludwig grumbled, thinking of his brother (who was currently in the back seat of one of the police cars outside, likely complaining about how unfair life was).

"I'll sleep in my office."

"No! You can't sleep in-"

"It'll be what, three days before they decide I can come back here? I think I can rough it out in my office for that long."

Ludwig stared at Arthur, but the Brit didn't seem to mind. He simply went on with his business, pulling clothes from his closet and putting his laptop in its case. He wondered if Arthur was thinking things through; it was always hard to tell. Arthur could be a tightass at times (as Gilbert put it), but then there were moments when that strict nature fell away for a split second to reveal a rather meek person underneath (though "meek" may not have been a good word for it; "relaxed" would probably fit the bill). As such, it was impossible to tell what Arthur was thinking when he decided to do something.

"Besides, it's easier to do work in the office. I was planning on heading back to use the system tonight anyways."

"I thought you were done with the Smith case." Ludwig looked down at the shorter man in confusion. "Said you couldn't do anything with an uncooperative witness-slash-victim."

"Like I told him, there are other cases that have to be investigated." Arthur shoved some clothes into a suitcase, and he pulled a case of cigarettes from the pocket of a jacket. "You smoke?" Ludwig shook his head. "Right. Your brother does."

"I told him to quit."

"Does he ever listen to you?"

Ludwig chose not to answer.

"Anyways, I'm back on that kidnapping case. Y'know, the one from, what, a year ago? That girl. Seems like a better waste of my time."

"You want to be careful who you say that around," Ludwig grumbled. "Reporters wouldn't like a missing person's case being called a "waste of time"."

"No reporters in here," Arthur said, and he clicked his suitcase shut. "I'm heading back to work. Make sure the bastards don't get into my fridge."

Ludwig nodded. He didn't bother telling him that the office had dubbed his refrigerator unsanitary long ago.

* * *

><p>Arthur spent the drive to the station thinking about his house, the criminal, and Katherine Walker. It was a depressing topic, yes, but it was better than nothing. And he couldn't ignore something directly connected to him, whether it was work or his personal life, so why bother pretending it wasn't there and didn't exist?<p>

He parked in the garage, leaving his car and walking past the mechanics that were changing the tires on some of the police cruisers. They didn't spare him a glance, and he stepped into the elevator, pausing briefly to check the clock by the work bench before he pressed the bright red "5" and the doors shut.

He hummed as the elevator rose, his stomach lurching as he ascended. He remembered that he had skipped out on dinner and wondered if Kiku would go for some delivery. He knew of a Thai place nearby, but Kiku had located every restaurant that delivered within twenty minutes for the nights that he stayed late to work on reports and data (though Arthur was sure he was just using the computers for the games that he loved. It wasn't like he was going to tell anyone, though; Kiku was one hell of an analyst). Kiku would probably pick something interesting out, if he was actually in tonight.

The elevator emitted a buzz when he reached the fifth floor, and he stepped out, careful to keep his suitcase from hitting the door. He turned the corner and walked straight to his office, dodging around the cubicles and down the long hallway.

He had often heard rumors of the station being haunted. He could understand how some (stupid) people believed the rumors, with the way the stairs creaked, and how the fluorescent lights flickered at night, often leaving the offices dim and ominous. He shoved open the door to his office and didn't bother to walk in. He simply dropped his suitcase on the floor just inside the door, then he turned and set off to find out if Kiku was in.

He found his way down to the third floor, and wandered through the dimly lit halls and past various offices and the occasional secretary's desk. He finally found the door with the engraved HONDA plaque, then tested the knob. It turned under his hand, and he pushed it open.

There was the sound of wrinkling paper, and Arthur found himself locking eyes with Kiku, who looked unperturbed by the interruption. Of course, Arthur could see a few hairs out of place, likely from his hurried actions to get out of his game lest a supervisor or someone in management found him.

"You had dinner?" Arthur asked bluntly, and Kiku shook his head. "Wanna order take-out?"

Kiku nodded and turned back to his computer, switching back to his game as Arthur entered and closed the door behind him. "I thought you were staying in a motel."

"How many people have heard that someone broke into my house?"

Kiku proceeded to blow someone up on his computer. "Everyone."

Arthur grumbled something under his breath, then leaned forward and grabbed Kiku's desk phone. "Any ideas?"

"A restaurant on Oak Avenue delivers," Kiku told him. He told him the number without batting an eye, frowning when someone shot at him.

Arthur called, his eyes locked on the computer screen as he repeated Kiku's order to the person that answered the phone. He doubled the order, figuring it was safe to have what Kiku was having, and was told that he would have to run downstairs to grab it from the delivery guy in roughly twenty minutes. The call completed, he settled back and watched Kiku play, wondering how Kiku was able to concentrate when everything was exploding around him.

"How is your case going?" Kiku asked after a few minutes.

Arthur shrugged. "I've looked, but I can't find anything. No witnesses, no boyfriends, nothing. There was a bar she supposedly frequented, but I checked it and didn't find anything."

"Did she frequent the bar for the drinks or the party?" Kiku asked as he armed himself with a grenade launcher and took off after an enemy.

Arthur had to think about that. "You think she went to parties?"

"She was only a few years younger than you, right?"

"Twenty-three," Arthur nodded.

"Then yes. I do. You may have common interests. Go to places you would go, and maybe you'll find her."

Arthur nodded, then groaned when what he was considering finally set in. "I can't go around in that get-up claiming it's police work. I would never hear the end of it."

"Then don't go as an officer. Just go as yourself. No one will notice."

Arthur silently agreed. Kiku may have some weird hobbies, but more often than not he was right (and he was reliable. There had been numerous occasions when Arthur had gone to him asking for assistance in removing his image from various questionable websites). "Well, it's a start," Arthur decided, and Kiku hummed.

"The food should be arriving any minute," Kiku noted, and Arthur left the room, heading downstairs to retrieve their dinner.

* * *

><p>Alfred laid back in the bed in his apartment, staring at his arm. There were less bandages, but the skin that no longer needed to be covered still felt raw, and a patch of violent red shone from between the tan bandages and the sleeve of his t-shirt.<p>

He was waiting for Eduard to call. He had ditched Kirkland's house at the first chance, sliding out the window and down the pipes on the side.

Then he had booked it down the street gleefully, having not been caught, and leaving no evidence behind. He had finally pinned the cop; he had everything off his computer. No more hiding!

He had gone to Eduard's place immediately, handing him the key card and changing out of his black outfit and into street clothes before returning home (after stopping at a McDonald's and ordering a burger and shake, of course).

Then he had found his way back home, dropping into a chair and watching the evening news while he ate. There had been nothing on the cop getting robbed, nothing on Smith, nothing interesting. He had finished eating and crawled into bed, but sleep didn't come.

He tossed and turned, the excitement of the night getting to him so that he couldn't calm his racing heart, couldn't make himself relax and sleep. He was waiting, wishing that Eduard would hurry and call, wishing that he could hear that "You did it! Awesome job!" over the phone (though Eduard would probably just say something boring like "Yeah, it's here. What do we do now?").

Alfred breathed out and let his arm plop down on the bed. He stared at the ceiling, trying to force himself to sleep, knowing that even Eduard needed some time.

He wasn't sure what had happened. It felt like he had been awake all night, but he had apparently dozed off without noticing. He was unsure if he had actually slept at all considering there was no real "waking up", instead just an awareness that had never seemed to leave him during the night. He listened to the phone ring beside his bed, then he reached over and pulled it from the cradle and held it to his ear.

"Yeah?"

"It's me."

Alfred had to fight to keep the shout of excitement from escaping his lips, and he sat up in bed, wide awake. "So? We got him, right? The files're there and-"

"Nothing."

Alfred sat still, blinking and tightening his grip on the phone in his hand. "Er… What? I downloaded his entire-"

"He didn't have anything." Eduard was talking in that voice; the one that said he was being really patient, but felt like he was explaining things to a toddler with ADHD.

"But he's-"

"He might be involved, he might not," Eduard was obviously attempting to spare Alfred's feelings by not going right out and calling him a idiot, "but there was nothing on his computer."

Alfred fell back on his bed, staring silently at the ceiling.

Back to the beginning.

Again.

* * *

><p>Dinner was a quiet affair.<p>

Arthur and Kiku were both silent while Kiku played his game and Arthur ate his sandwich. Arthur would look up every so often, but the game seemed to be nothing more than explosions and mayhem.

It was slow. The only people in were the graveyard shift workers, and they were all on the floor below, taking calls and lingering near the doors where they could run out for their car at the next call that actually required their attention.

"What was he doing in your house?" Kiku finally asked.

Arthur shrugged. "Something with my computer, I think. Nothing was taken."

"Who would go after _your_ computer?" Kiku frowned. "Have you ever used it?"

"I only do important things on the computer in my office," Arthur admitted. "I think the most that was on that were some games and a text file or two."

"What about the letters you got?"

"Ah... Probably the same guy."

"Then I'm surprised he didn't shoot you." Kiku smiled weakly. "From the... _hostility_ in his letters, I assumed he would shoot you on sight instead of running away."

Arthur snorted and set his sandwich down on the desk beside Kiku's mouse, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "I've had plenty of those before. Complete shit in their letters, and without the balls to back up their threats. It's everywhere."

Kiku hummed something and tapped the computer keys, switching out of the game just before the door opened.

"Kirkland?"

"_What_, Stephen?"

"You have more mail."

"Has it been checked?"

"Of course."

"I'll be right down."

Arthur waited for the door to shut, then he hurriedly finished his sandwich. He wiped his hands on a napkin and stood, waving goodbye to Kiku and leaving.

He had never been very amused with how the mail system was set up. Shortly after joining the force, Roderich had decided that all of the incoming mail had to be tested for substances.

Rather, all of _Arthur's _incoming mail had to be tested for substances. As a result, he usually got his mail three days late. Which was a pain in the ass when he was trying to run an investigation.

He took the stairs to the floor below, then went straight to the mail room. He didn't greet any of the other men in the room, instead grabbing his letters from the box and immediately leaving to catch the elevator back up to his office.

He flipped through the letters as he moved, tearing open a letter from Francis and grimacing when he found more pictures. He shoved them away and tore open the next, glanced over his bank account, then pulled another to the front at the same time he shoved open the door to his office.

"Long time no see!"

Arthur stopped, holding the edge of the door and staring at the woman perched on his desk. She smiled at him and waved, but he obviously wasn't pleased with her presence. His eyes narrowed, his back straightened, and he opened the door wider and stepped to the side, gesturing. "Your husband's office is down the hall, Elizabeta."

"I know," she chirped. "But he's at your house right now!"

"Delightful."

"So, wanna gimme an interview?"

"No."

Elizabeta frowned, but her eyes sparkled with mischief. "You must have something you want to say to the thief! We publish it, and you can tell him on every newspaper in the city!"

"Tell him to fuck off then," Arthur snapped. "Now get your ass off my desk. You've probably messed everything up."

"Y'know, using a computer would mean that you didn't have papers laying all over the place," she pointed out as she hopped down. Arthur left the door and sat down in his chair, glaring at her over the top of the desk.

"Elizabeta, you're not-"

"Oh, c'mon," Elizabeta pressed. "Just a quick comment! I'll even quote you in the magazine!"

"I don't want to be in a bleeding-" Arthur gave up. He could see that she wasn't about to leave him alone. "Fine. Here's my comment: After careful consideration, I've chosen quartering upon discovery. I hope you enjoy your last days on this earth, assbite."

Elizabeta was scribbling madly in her notebook, unperturbed by his language.

"How many pages will this one be?" Arthur asked with a scowl.

"I can make it four," she said cheerily, then she fled the office.

Arthur waited for the door to shut, and for her footsteps to fade before he returned to his mail. Bills, more bills, another letter from Francis (he shredded the letters _and_ the pictures), and finally he reached the letter that had been attracting his attention from the beginning. No return address, no distinguishing marks. He tore it open and swallowed, his movements suddenly slowed and hesitant.

Hair.

Human hair.

* * *

><p>"How's that report coming?"<p>

Alfred looked up when Elizabeta leaned over him, looking at the screen of his computer.

"Slow," Alfred mumbled, clicking through websites and e-mails. "I went out yesterday night but didn't find anything. No cops want to talk about it."

"Keep on it," Elizabeta told him. She patted his shoulder. "My husband said there's nothing going on at the station right now."

Alfred chuckled. "A reporter married to the chief. _That_ must lead to some interesting talks."

"Sometimes." Elizabeta released his shoulder. "Just keep looking, Al. You'll find it. Just remember, we're not funding you past seven-hundred dollars."

"Yes, Ma'am!" Alfred called out to her, forcing a southern accent. She giggled and moved into another cubicle to check with someone about another story.

Alfred groaned. He had to start working seriously to get the report done up, but he wasn't sure where to start. He looked back through his notes, mentally working out a schedule. He was supposed to check in with Eduard that night and the next, so any running around for work would have to happen two days after.

Alfred clicked open an e-mail, wondering if he would finally catch a break, when there was the sound of a shot behind him.

His mind only processed the _-bang-_ then he was on the floor, tucked under his desk and breathing quickly.

"Shit!" someone cursed from the next cubicle over. "Damn, I- Sorry! Shit, sorry!" A red-head was peeking over the partition, his eyes wide and apologetic. "It was an e-mail, sound file thing. Damn, I mean-"

Alfred was beginning to feel embarrassed. Especially when Elizabeta showed up and scolded his neighbor before kneeling down and asking if he was okay.

"Fine," Alfred said quickly, stretching his limbs out and slowly crawling out from the space under his desk. "Just a bit paranoid. Sorry." He looked up at the man over the partition. "No harm done," he assured him, trying to slow his speeding heart. "Not like you meant it or anything. Don't worry 'bout it."

While Alfred was pulling his overturned chair back to him, Elizabeta was hovering nearby, watching his every move like a hawk.

"You want to take a break?" she asked him, and he looked up at her. "I'll take you out for lunch. Hurry and grab your things."

Alfred wanted to protest, but she was already hurrying away. He watched her retreating back in silence, then sighed and turned off his computer. He waved at the pale man in the neighboring cubicle, then followed after where she had disappeared.

* * *

><p>"Maybe I should say something about office etiquette," Elizabeta mused as she picked out a french fry. "I mean, there was no reason for his volume to be that high."<p>

"You don't have to make a big deal about it," Alfred chuckled between mouthfuls of burger. She shrugged and popped the fry into her mouth, and then he saw the top of a piece of paper that was pinned between her elbow and the table.

"Arthur Kirkland?" Alfred read, and she beamed at him.

"Heard of him?" she asked, but he didn't have time to answer before she had continued the one-sided discussion. "He works over at the station. Excellent cop, the best on the force. Even Roderich says so."

"How does one become the best?" Alfred asked, keeping his voice light as though indulging in some sort of joke.

"Well, he's never lost a case," Elizabeta started. "Then you have to consider... Well, he's just the best."

Alfred remembered picking up the paper the morning before and skimming through it. He had immediately been drawn to a small tidbit in the local section, a tidbit that- "I thought his house was broken into."

Elizabeta laughed before she could bite into another french fry. "His house may have been broken into, but the criminal isn't going to get away with it." She shook her head, her laugh fading to a chuckle. "Nah... Arthur's pissed. I think that intruder's gonna regret sneaking in. Arthur's the kinda guy that'll break the suspects fingers and legs and make it look like an accident."

Alfred felt his blood run cold. Colder than when the shot had fired behind him at his desk, than when he had run from Smith's house, and than when he had been trying to catch up with those troops in the Middle East. Elizabeta was serious. Kirkland was mean. He was heartless. He was angry.

And he was probably already looking for Alfred.

"You look like you've just seen a ghost," Elizabeta tore him from his thoughts. He shrugged and bit into his burger to get some time to think. "Maybe you should try a different story? I mean, you've worked hard, but maybe you should take a break and-"

"I'm fine with it," Alfred was quick to say, not noticing how she smirked at him. "I'm totally good with it!"

Elizabeta nodded. "Maybe you could talk to him then," she said, and she poked the name scrawled on the paper under her elbow. "Arthur's the kind of guy that would like having company. He'd love helping you on the case!"

Alfred sincerely doubted that.

* * *

><p>"Ha!" Eduard laughed when Alfred finished recounting how his day had gone, and Alfred glared at him. Despite the fact that he was a little surprised by the emotion that Eduard expressed (emotion he had never expressed before), he was a bit pissed.<p>

"Is my life really that funny?" Alfred demanded as the Estonian wiped the tears from his eyes.

"Your life is hilarious," Eduard said, returning to his expressionless, _boring_ self. "But honestly, you should take her up on that offer if you're that convinced that Kirkland's involved."

"You're just mocking me again." Alfred frowned, and Eduard shrugged.

"It's not my fault you set yourself up for it, honestly. Now can we get back to the topic at hand?"

"Smith's been leaving town more often," Alfred muttered.

"Right! So you have to follow him!"

"Because I'm totally awesome at tailing people," Alfred said dully.

"Hey, you're the one that signed up for it." Eduard shrugged and turned back to his computer.

"I didn't sign up for this!" Alfred protested. "I was conned into this!"

"You make it seem like my fault." Eduard frowned. "Should I remind you that _you_ were the one that came to me complaining about how the world wasn't fair and you had to make a difference?"

"You lied to me!"

"Did not."

"You did!"

"Are we really having this discussion?" Eduard frowned and typed quickly. "You should hurry up and go. He's supposed to be leaving again tonight."

Alfred grumbled something under his breath as he wandered into the bathroom to change (he was completely comfortable changing in the living room, but Eduard always bitched so he had to settle for the bathroom), listening to the clicking keys through the door.

"By the way, did you find anything 'bout the drugs?"

"I bought you tickets to some sort of club," Eduard's voice called back, faint past the wooden door. Alfred dropped his shirt on the sink and yanked on the black sweater that hung on the back of the door. "You should be able to find something there. Something usually happens at happy hour."

"Delightful," Alfred muttered, his voice muffled by the sweater over his face. He pulled it down sharply. "Just fucking delightful."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Seven won't be out until next Monday. I'm going away for a week, and I don't feel like updating this with my Kindle :P Hope what's already written will hold you over until then!

* * *

><p>Alfred's pursuit had been futile. He had followed Smith for two days in between work, but the guy never went anywhere incriminating. In fact, it seemed as though he <em>knew<em> that he was being followed, and as a result he went to completely random locations.

The beach.

A hotel.

A clothing store.

His attempts to catch the bastard were fruitless, and so he was forced to sit back and settle with work, both in the office and out. Because he couldn't do anything that would risk his job in the long run, and Elizabeta-

"How about this one?"

Elizabeta was holding up a blue tanktop, waving it back and forth eagerly. Alfred frowned, wanting desperately to turn around and walk right back out of the store.

"No way," he told her, and she grimaced before returning to the rack. "What about the hoodie from before?"

"Too heavy," she murmured as she picked through another rack. "Clubs are fast. You have to wear something cool."

"The hoodie was cool."

"I'm talking about temperature, sweetie, not appearance."

Alfred grimaced as she pulled out a t-shirt, holding it up and waiting for his response.

"Are you sure the hoodie isn't-"

"Buy something loose and cool, and you can tie the hoodie around your waist," Elizabeta snapped. "Now hurry and pick something out!"

"What about the black one?" Alfred said quickly. Elizabeta yanked it from the rack and held it up. It was a black tanktop with silver stripes around the midsection, and she nodded to herself.

"Perfect," she chirped, and held it up to Alfred's front to see how it would look on him. "Not terribly loose, but it'll show some muscle..." She thrust it into his arms and pushed him towards the changing rooms. "Now hurry and try it on! We don't have all day, and I have to find you some pants!"

"What's wrong with my je-" Alfred was cut off when she finally shoved him into the changing booth, and he was left staring at himself in the mirror. His overwhelmed expression stared back at him, and he groaned as he slowly removed his shirt.

They had decided on some high-end rave to look for information. It was a good place to start on his article, and he was sure that there would be _some_ information, but it seemed like a bit much.

He wondered when this story had become something that stressed him as much as the streets of the Middle East, among the soldiers and enemy, dodging gunfire and bombs. He pulled the black shirt on over his head and stared at himself in the mirror. He wondered if the clothes were really that big of a deal, and then Elizabeta was knocking on the door and demanding he open up.

"Ooh! That's a nice one!" Elizabeta looked pleased, and then she shoved a pair of black pants into his arms. "Those should go with it! Try them on and show me!"

She was more interested in shopping for clothes than Alfred had originally thought she would be, and the thought disturbed him. He removed his jeans for the pants of questionable material, and when he zipped the fly, he stared at himself.

The pants were baggier than he liked, and the material felt flimsy compared to the jeans he had alway worn. The black matched the shirt, and he wondered why he was doing this. He understood that it was for work, but...

"Are you done? I wanna see!"

Alfred begrudgingly opened the door for her, and she almost squealed in delight.

"Oh, _perfect_! Just... Yes! You must still have your boots from when you were in the Middle East, right? Those black ones? Wear those with them!" She continued on, praising his good looks and broad shoulders, and he inwardly groaned.

It wasn't the first time he would question his career as a journalist, and it certainly wouldn't be the last.

* * *

><p>Alfred didn't know what to expect when he submerged himself into the culture of something called a "rave," but what he had expected certainly wasn't what he was met with.<p>

The bright colors and flashing lights blinded him as he moved through the crowds, dodging around groups of people dancing, and some groups where people had begun to suck on each others' faces amidst the chaos of gyrating bodies. There were people everywhere, chatting on cellphones, hanging out, showing off their "moves" to others that would watch. He was rather impressed by a few people that were doing flips and turns, and wondered if he could somehow learn to move like that when a woman was suddenly in front of him.

She was cute. Long black hair, bright smile, short skirt. And weird gloves that had light-up fingers. She talked briefly to him, about the people and the music, then proceeded to twirl her hands, ribbons of light forming in the dim room, until a small gathering of people had joined them to watch the show. She grinned as she performed, her fingers twisting and flexing, and Alfred blinked.

Raves really weren't that bad. _Weird, _maybe, but not bad.

As Alfred thought, his attention wandered towards a small group of people, all looking happy and laughing. He blinked, his eyes passing over a man in the group, one that seemed to be the center of attention.

A man that had been in a picture Kirkland had been looking at.

He had piercings. Nose, eyebrow, ears. They were everywhere, and Alfred found himself going closer. He caught the flash of a tongue ring as the man spoke, and he wondered why Kirkland would have a picture of _him_, of all people. He wore a loose white shirt, and black leather jeans that looked just loose enough to provide a fairly wide range of motion. Then the boots, and the leather wrist-things... A couple other people in the small group were wearing leather as well, but on them it looked messy. On the stranger, it just looked _right._

"No, I'm not showing you my bloody tattoo!" the man snapped, and Alfred idly wondered if Kirkland liked him because he was the same nationality (he also wondered exactly where said tattoo was). "Now where th' hell do I find a bloody drink?"

A girl by him giggled, and Alfred saw the man's jaw set, and he looked away. In that movement, Alfred caught a flash of green, and his eyes widened in shock.

_Kirkland._

* * *

><p>The problem with having a life outside of work was recognition.<p>

Arthur liked parties. And alcohol. Combining both likes led to nightclubs (where the party never ended) and, regretably, raves.

He had nothing against raves. They simply weren't for him. However, when a missing person was a frequent "rave-goer", he had to look in all possibilities to find out what happened to her. And one possibility was a disappearance at a rave.

Of course, he was a police officer, and as such, he had to have an identity that would not scare away the people that enjoyed the same things he did. An identity that did _not_ resemble his normal self, and an identity that could _not_ be linked to his daytime persona. All was well in the world when no one knew who the fuck he was, but when pictures began to be posted on various "raver" and "clubber" websites, and a certain fucking frog went looking for (and found) them, things began to go terribly wrong.

People began to recognize him at these events. They didn't recognize him as an officer, but as a fellow clubber, and would seek him out when they thought they caught a glimpse of him.

Like now. He had been wandering aimlessly, wondering where to begin his search for Miss Katherine Walker, when he was set upon by a group of like-minded individuals interested in having a nice long discussion about random shite he cared nothing about. Questions like "Rave often?" were met with "Once in a great while," and then followed by giggles from the American brats that had something for English accents.

Another part of the problem was the fact that he could _feel_ the tiny microphone that he had put in his pants, just below his hips and under the leather. And he knew that when he was done with this night, and when he went back over the recording, he'd have to listen through all of this shite again when he really didn't want to hear it.

He looked for a way out, and after a moment decided that he didn't really care. He just left. The group was still talking amongst themselves, and he bumped into some blue-eyed brat that gave him a wide-eyed look before fleeing. He didn't pay any mind to the kid; he just continued on, searching for clues, and maybe a little alcohol. It wasn't like he'd get in trouble for any of this shit later; he was off-duty.

Arthur had no real destination. He couldn't just point and have the mystery solved, and have Miss Walker walk over and give him her thanks before running home.

No. Because he was dealing with some sick fuck that had decided that the mail was a good place to send souvenirs from his victims, taunting the investigators about how they could do nothing to save the people they were supposed to protect. Arthur grumbled at the unfairness of it all, but it wasn't as though anyone would listen.

He certainly wasn't going to tell Francis. There was no reason to put further thoughts of himself in tight leather into the man's head. And he wasn't about to tell Roderich, lest his wife (who, he was sure, was a complete pervert) find out.

Time passed, and Arthur could find nothing. He had found a place to buy drinks, and after a while he stayed there. He had only had a single beer (he knew better than to drink too much when he was looking something up), and then he had milled around, waiting for something to happen.

That "something" came in the form of a short brown-haired man. He was slightly chubby, a scar on his upper lip, and he immediately approached after he picked Arthur out of the crowd.

"You want a party?" the man said, looking up and down Arthur's body. Arthur crossed his arms and frowned, earning a grin from the other. "The real deal's downstairs," he continued. "Up here? This's nothing. You want some fun, then follow me and don't get lost."

Arthur nodded, though his scowl remained, and he followed the man through the crowds, keeping his excitement in check. This could be his big break. _This_ could be the end to his search, or the beginning of the discovery of Miss Walker. He easily dodged around patrons, his eyes glowing whenever someone with lights or glow sticks passed him, and he followed the man down a flight of stairs and through a door, ready for either another party, or an attack.

* * *

><p>Arthur groaned.<p>

His head pounded. He tried to open his eyes, but the brightness of the room forced them closed again. He buried his face into something on his arms, trying to remember.

Where was he?

He attempted to open his eyes again, and he briefly caught sight of his desk before shutting them once more.

So he had made it home. Good. He needed a shower. He could feel something on him, likely soda or beer that someone had dumped on him before his trip home. He tried to think back on it, but gave up quickly. He could listen to the microphone and remember later.

If only he knew where it was. Likely on the floor with his discarded pants and shirt.

Arthur finally decided to go back to sleep, to forget for a little bit longer, when he felt something against his back. He stiffened and slowly turned his head, opening his eyes slightly.

_Blond hair._

_Fuck._


	7. Chapter 7

To say that Alfred was perturbed would be a gross understatement.

In all actuality, he was _terrified._

He had woken with blurred vision, his glasses discarded somewhere. His head hurt, and he had blinked slowly at the curtains, wondering how he had gotten home, and when he had gotten new curtains.

Then his eyes had found a bureau across the room, and his heart had begun to beat frantically.

_He recognized that bureau._

And as his mind slowly cleared, flashes from the night before forced themselves into his door brain to further humiliate and shame him.

_He had been invited...private party... Kirkland... someone offered a beer... Kirkland had been doing something odd... _

They had been in the streets. They had been supporting each other, keeping each other from falling. They had crashed into the doorway when they entered the house, all over each other, Kirkland unlocking the door and pushing inside.

_Couldn't keep his hands off him._

Kirkland had said something, his voice low, had slammed the door shut with his foot-

_"Too fucking long."_

Someone had moaned. Maybe they both had. Then it was a flurry of blankets and sweat-

_-pain-_

-and then nothing.

Alfred bit his tongue to hold back a whimper when the pain in his backside finally made itself known, with a steady ache that ran up his spine and made him wonder if something was broken.

He wanted to run. He needed to get out, before Kirkland woke up and killed him, before he was identified (but Elizabeta had indicated that he was _already known _to the cop), before-

A groan tore Alfred from his thoughts, and he was forced to accept the truth.

Nothing short of a miracle would get him out of that bed, into the clothes that were strewn throughout the house, and running down the street as fast as he could. Especially since he could feel Kirkland stirring behind him, and could hear the murmurs as the man shook off sleep and tossed the blankets around. Then there was the sound of fabric, and Alfred hoped that Kirkland was pulling on his pants and going out into the other room.

His hopes were dashed when green eyes appeared before his bewildered blue ones, the man kneeling on the floor on his side of the bed with an expression that looked caught between anger and concern.

"You from the rave?" To the point. Just like Elizabeta had told him Kirkland would be. Alfred didn't trust himself to speak; he nodded instead. "Damn. Listen, are you hungry? There's toast or eggs. Anything you want."

Alfred found himself wondering at how Kirkland could be so _nice_ about the whole waking-up-in-bed-with-a-stranger thing, but then he figured it had happened before (after all, he had seen all the women entering and leaving the place, and occasionally a guy or two).

"I should lea-" Alfred found his voice only to lose his words in a whimper as he sat up and the ache became a throbbing pain. He had a feeling he knew why Kirkland was being so nice to him when he saw a bright red spot on the sheets, and then Kirkland was carefully trying to get him to lay back down so he wouldn't do more damage.

"Lay down and take it easy," Kirkland muttered. "Is there anything you want?"

Alfred gave up. Kirkland was looking him in the eye, so he was already screwed when it came to keeping himself hidden away. Running wouldn't accomplish anything when Kirkland knew who he was.

"You have a shower?" Alfred muttered, not bothering to keep the resentment out of his voice. Kirkland nodded and looked him over. Alfred desperately wanted to cover himself up, but he realized that there was no point in doing that, either. Kirkland had already seen everything.

"Want me to help you?" Kirkland asked hesitantly, and when Alfred tried to sit up and stumbled, Kirkland grabbed his arm and steadied him. Kirkland helped him get to his feet, not saying anything about the winces, then he led him towards the bathroom.

Alfred stood by the door, feeling uncomfortable as a draft brushed by him, and he watched as Kirkland got down and started the water in the bath.

"You should just sit down," Kirkland said. "Carefully, though. You're probably going to be sore for a few days."

It just got better and better.

"So what's your name?" Kirkland asked, obviously trying to fill the awkward silence.

"Alfred Jones."

Kirkland hummed something. "Mine's Arthur." The two fell into silence once more, and neither seemed all that willing to fill it. "So," Arthur finally muttered, "what were you doing there last night?"

"Working on a report," Alfred mumbled, and Arthur looked back. He obviously hadn't expected that sort of answer.

"Report?"

"I'm a journalist," Alfred told him. There was no use hiding anything.

"Elizabeta's newspaper, I take it?"

"The weekly mag."

"Right." Arthur tested the water with his fingers and stood, looking torn for a moment before gesturing. Alfred took that as a good ahead, and slowly walked over. He began to lower himself and found Arthur's hands on his arms, helping him into the water and trying to fend off the pain as much as possible.

It hurt. God, it hurt, but at the same time it felt nice.

"I'll make some breakfast," Arthur muttered, then he fled the bathroom.

Alfred let his head fall against the side of the bath and sighed.

* * *

><p>A joke. It had to be some sort of joke.<p>

The food that Arthur offered looked as though it had been through some horrible accident, and he imagined that Arthur was planning on killing him with the concoction. But the man seemed to be genuinely concerned for his well-being.

"You must be working on the entertainment section," Arthur mused as Alfred poked at the food. "I don't know why else you'd be in a rave. Unless you were doing some fashion thing."

"Drugs," Alfred muttered, finally daring himself to take a bite of the _thing_ before him. "Thought I'd find a lead or something in there." There was a long silence, then he looked up with a weak smile. "Guess that was, what, ecstasy?"

"If it was ecstasy, we wouldn't have..." Arthur let his voice fade, then cleared his throat. "Well, we would've just hugged a lot. Not much more than that."

Alfred nodded and stared at the food before him. It tasted like ash. A door slammed, and he jumped up, wincing when the throbbing made itself known once more.

"Just the neighbors," Arthur said. "Don't worry about it."

Alfred doesn't. It hits him. Arthur never had the visitors he thought he did.

He just lived in a fucking apartment.

But it doesn't seem to matter now.

"So those drugs," Alfred begins, trying to find something to break the awkward silence, "those were illegal, right?"

"Probably spiked the drinks." Arthur nodded. "Very illegal."

And Alfred had gotten nothing out of it. If anything, he had just doomed himself.

* * *

><p>Arthur didn't know what to think of the young journalist before him, except that guilt pooled in him stronger than anything he had ever felt before. Alfred had probably been a virgin, guessing from the blood that stained the sheets. That, or he had been rough.<p>

Either way, it wasn't good.

The journalist before him looked shell-shocked from what had happened, and he had the feeling that he was more aware of the prior night's events than Arthur was. Arthur looked towards the door, at the small table, where he had dropped the microphone that he had found in the living room, tangled in his shirt. He had picked up while Alfred bathed, and all of their clothes were washing.

"So enlighten me on this drug story," Arthur finally ventured. "Maybe I can help you out."

Alfred appeared almost unwilling to answer to him, but finally opened his mouth. "There're illegal drugs in the area. Modified drugs and stuff. Meth mixed with ecstasy, weed, all kinds of stuff."

"And you want to expose the dealers," Arthur said, waiting for Alfred's nod.

"Elizabeta said that her husband didn't know anything. I guess nothing's been going around at the police station."

"I have a source that may be able to help you," Arthur muttered. "He tends to know about these things."

"That'd be cool," Alfred muttered, but his voice lacked any enthusiasm. Arthur was already scribbling on a piece of paper, his meal long forgotten.

"He's an okay guy. He doesn't ask questions as long as you don't rat him out."

Neither said anything after, and Arthur slid the piece of paper across the table to Alfred. Alfred stared at it, as though unwilling to do anything else.

The silence was suffocating. Arthur could understand completely. How do you talk to the guy that just fucked you (probably senseless) then made you breakfast? He was surprised that Alfred was still hanging around.

"Well..." Arthur tried to think of something to say. "What if I said I needed your help?"

Alfred looked up, obviously confused. Arthur could understand _that_ too.

"There's this girl I'm looking for," Arthur said. "Listen, don't tell anyone, but..." Arthur leaned forward on the table, his elbows on the surface and his clasped hands supporting his chin. "I'm with the force, and I've been working on a missing person's case for weeks now. There's a girl, Katherine Walker. She was a big fan of the rave we were at last night, and she went missing a couple months ago. A couple _days _ago, someone sent me an envelope with her hair in it." Arthur hesitated, wondering if he should really be talking to a journalist about it. "Have you heard anything about her?"

Alfred stared at him, then shook his head. "I haven't heard anything about that."

"Well, it's fine." Arthur waved a hand at him, dismissing the topic. "Just got a bit hopeful. No big deal." He paused, then frowned. "Please tell me you aren't going to tell anyone about this?"

"_I_ don't even want to remember this," Alfred groaned, and Arthur sighed in relief.

"That makes two of us, then," Arthur muttered.

Arthur had offered to give Alfred a ride home, but he had refused. He had taken the walk of shame home in silence, keeping his posture straight, reminding himself that it had been so much worse on the battlefield. He hated himself for comparing the two different events, but his mind couldn't get away from the thought.

But Arthur was weird. Far weirder than he had originally thought. But not weird in a bad way.

Arthur was... Well, he wasn't fake. He didn't think a guy like that could lie. It was too weird, considering the night before, and the many times he had watched the guy like a hawk.

And he seemed genuinely concerned about the missing girl.

Alfred tried not to think about it. He tried to erase it from his mind, and when he returned to his apartment, he crawled into the bath and let himself soak. He tried not to think about it. He tried to forget the damn breakfast, and the clean clothes, and the expression of guilt and shock. He tried to forget about how he had looked in the mirror, his chest covered in marks and his eyes sunken and frightful.

But it was hard to forget when you couldn't stop thinking about it.

Alfred sat in the bath and stared at the ceiling, ignoring the ringing phone. It was probably just Eduard, wondering how the night had gone, and if he had seen anything useful.

Maybe it had been useful. Maybe what he had seen down there was relevant to want he was searching for. Maybe the dancers and the strippers had been important, maybe the bartender had been one of those assholes that he was trying desperately to find.

But the things he remembered about those strippers and bartenders were few and far between. He just remembered the alcohol, and then how he had sidled up to Arthur, needy and wanting to be touched. He should never have decided to follow him; it was inevitable that inside that club, anything could have gone wrong. Like when he had run into him?

He could have been dead, right there. He could have ended everything with that one stupid mistake.

But Arthur had brushed him aside and continued on.

And Alfred had followed.

Alfred pressed the palms of his hands to his eyes, wanting to erase the memory.

_So stupid!_

Under the influence of the drugs, the first person he had latched onto had been the one he was following. He had acted like a little whore, wanting attention, and kisses, and _more_.

Alfred sank down deeper into the bath, wishing the water would seep into his skin, flood his brain and wash away the memories and the evidence.

But the throbbing didn't disappear.

He could still remember everything.

And then some.

Alfred slowly forced himself from the bath, listening to the water as it cascaded from his body and back down into the tub, and he yanked the plug. He pulled a towel from the rack quickly, wrapping it around his waist and walking out into the living room.

He wasn't getting anywhere. Everything he was working on had stagnated, and nothing was going anywhere. Nothing was getting done, and he doubted he was able to keep working on it anymore.

The phone started its incessant ringing again, and Alfred snatched it up on the second ring.

"Where the hell've you bee-"

"Did you look up Kirkland?" Alfred demanded, and his question was met with a confused silence.

"Well, I mean, yeah, but right now I-"

"I want to tell him."

Eduard didn't make a sound. The silence lasted so long that Alfred checked that the phone was still on.

"Ed?"

"Why?" Eduard sounded distraught and confused. "Why would you want to do that?"

Alfred didn't have an answer for that.


	8. Chapter 8

"I didn't say I wanted to be in on the bust," Arthur grumbled as Vash steered, muttering under his breath.

"Don't I know it," Vash said, and he cast a dark look in Arthur's direction. "Will you at least check the damn gun? All I need is for you to go in unarmed and-"

"And we're both dead, I get it."

"No, _you're _dead. _I_ would live. I'm not stupid enough to get shot."

Arthur frowned. "For a second, you sounded like Gilbert."

"Do you want me to shoot you?" Vash threatened, and Arthur shrugged.

"That wouldn't be in your best interests. You need all the manpower you can get."

"You think too highly of yourself," Vash muttered, and he yanked the steering wheel to the side. Arthur cursed when his head bounced off the window, and then the engine was cut, and Arthur was looking outside the windshield at the warehouse from three days before.

The warehouse didn't look like a place that had been a major party location, with raves occurring almost weekly. It looked more like a dilapidated old building in the middle of nowhere. There were sheds scattered about the main building, and there were fences falling apart around the perimeter.

The vehicles had stopped just outside the main gate, the black paint blending in with the darkness. Arthur looked out the window at the SWAT van, and he knew that other vehicles had taken up post at the other gates and on the long stretches of fencing.

"Units three and five are in position." The radio came to life, and Arthur looked to the driver in the SWAT van. He waved a hand back.

"Unit four is prepared."

The SWAT members left the back of the van by them, and they began to move down towards the warehouse. Arthur could see a faint shift in the distance, and he pursed his lips.

Five teams were present for the raid. Arthur was sure they wouldn't find anything (or anyone), but it was better to have a team put together for a worst case scenario. Considering what was possible in a kidnapping case, no one wanted to be caught off guard.

"Unit one is ready."

"Unit two is ready."

"Move in."

There were lights and sounds, and the doors around the building were forced open by the teams. Arthur sat back and waited, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it after opening his window.

"Lili's gonna think I was smoking," Vash growled. Arthur grunted something and opened the door to climb out, shutting it behind him and leaning against the car.

"She knows I smoke," Arthur told him through the open window. "You could blame it on me and she'd believe you."

Vash didn't answer, and the two waited in silence for the "okay" from the teams within.

Seven minutes later, it came.

"There's nothing in here," a voice called back over the radio. Arthur didn't wait for Vash to answer the call before he started down through the grass that had grown through the pavement, flicking ash from his cigarette and striding confidently towards the doors.

He pushed them open and walked inside. A few of the SWAT officers looked back at him, and he raised his cigarette in the air and motioned to someone across the warehouse. Ludwig waved back in acknowledgement, and Arthur snagged the nearest officer by the shirt.

"Get a couple units downstairs," he told him, and the man blinked behind his mask.

"Downstairs?"

"_Yes, _downstairs! That's where we'll find everything."

The nearest SWAT officers looked confused, and Arthur groaned. He took a puff of his cigarette and motioned.

"Follow me." Arthur motioned with a hand and led the teams past some crates that he recognized from the bar set-up, and in between some metal bins. He reached a corner of the warehouse and motioned to something that looked like a large motor from a truck. "Door's right there. Move the motor, the floor opens up."

The officers got right to work, lifting and pushing the motor out of the way to reveal a handle in the floor. Arthur stepped back as the officers lined up and opened the door, then disappeared into the ground.

"Please tell me they'll find something to make this raid worthwhile," Ludwig's sighed from where he had walked up behind Arthur. Arthur didn't bother turning to face him.

"They hid the basement. If it was clean, they wouldn't have wasted their time."

Ludwig grumbled something, and Arthur listened intently to the sounds of footsteps and scraping below. He could hear something heavy being pushed along the floor, and he narrowed his eyes.

"Kirkland!" one of the men below shouted up. "We have bodies!"

The sudden flurry of activity was astounding as officers rushed to the stairs and down into the basement, already taking pictures and calling for a medical examiner and others to assist in the crime scene.

Arthur remained silent as he walked forward, his eyes following the flashlights that flitted around on the floor before him, and he glanced towards the group of officers gathered around a lump on the floor.

Rather, _three_ lumps.

"This looks like your girl, Kirkland," one of them said, and Arthur set his jaw as he walked over.

He didn't step close to them. He stood and stared at the three women, the _girls,_ and he swallowed.

"Not her," he told them, "but they could be twins."

It was true. Light brown hair, highlighted with streaks of blond; tan skin; petite figures, shapely; narrow mouths, and he was sure that they all had brown eyes. They were so much alike, each one of them. They were even around the same height.

"Whoever did this knew we'd be coming," Arthur muttered.

"With how close they look to your girl, I imagine they did."

"No." Arthur knelt by one of the bodies and motioned with a hand.

There was a neon green envelope between two of the girls, addressed to _Arthur Kirkland/"ENGLAND"._

"They did this purposely to get your attention."

Arthur didn't know who said it, but suddenly the threats he had cast aside so long ago felt all the more real. He had never really feared anything, but he had a feeling that he would soon be closer to that particular emotion than he had ever imagined he would be.

* * *

><p>"He's not coming."<p>

"He'll come."

The resulting silence lasted all of three minutes.

"I told you, Al, _he's not coming._"

"I left him a note. He won't just ignore it."

"Are you _really_ a journalist? Have you bothered _watching_ the news? The police are investigating some murders that popped up. He probably hasn't been home."

Eduard's words finally seemed to sink in, and Alfred looked at him with wide eyes.

"So he might not've gotten the note."

"But why the hell did you _leave_ a note, anyways?" Eduard was still unwilling to accept Arthur into their little circle, and while it seemed as though Alfred was eager to bring him in, well...

Alfred didn't know what to do. He questioned everything. Arthur appeared innocent, instead of the guilt he had been sure of. He was pretty nice, something no one had ever told him. After a night where little could be remembered and a lot was left to regret, he had expected Arthur to kick him out. He hadn't expected for the guy to cook him breakfast (even if it was really bad), or wash his clothes.

Of course, that didn't mean he wanted to be friendly with the guy. He was just tired, and he knew that he couldn't keep doing the legwork on his own while Eduard sat back and typed away at his computer.

"You put down your apartment, right?" Eduard asked. "Not mine?"

"I put down mine," Alfred muttered. "I'm not stupid."

"I never said you wer-"

"But you implied it," Alfred snapped, and Eduard frowned.

"You've been weird since the rave," Eduard muttered. "You see something there? And what the hell's with you insisting on Kirkland joining us? He hated him before."

"I talked to the guy," Alfred said, but he was unwilling to say anymore.

"Because you're the greatest judge of character," Eduard hissed.

"I'm working _with_ you instead of _against_ you, right?" Alfred shot back, and he jumped when there was a knock at the door.

The two exchanged glances, and Alfred felt something sink down into the pit of his stomach. He was backtracking, and regretting the decision to invite Arthur. He should have let Eduard convince him to _not_ call Arthur.

He didn't even want to be in the same room as the other man.

Alfred forced himself to move, back out of the living room and into the short hallway. He tried to move faster so that he wouldn't appear weak in front of Eduard. He swallowed, then grabbed the knob and pulled the door open.

Arthur Kirkland stood there with crossed arms, a piece of paper crumpled in his fist, and a scowl.

"What's the meaning of this note? And how'd you get in my house?"

Arthur pushed past Alfred and planted himself in the room, daring Alfred to say something against him. Eduard looked up, scanning Arthur briefly before turning his eyes back to Alfred and waiting.

Alfred remembered a time when he used to love attention. Now he'd give anything to make them look away.

"I broke in."

Arthur took the news surprisingly well. There was no shouting, no growls, no scolding.

Instead, he was glaring at Alfred with an expression that could probably kill small animals, and his hands had begun to turn white from how tightly he had clenched his fist around the paper in his hand. His mouth was twisted, his lips pursed, and Alfred wondered if he could run faster than the other in case things went south.

"Kindly explain why I shouldn't shoot you right now," Arthur said, his voice low and controlled. "You say you broke into my house, which is a crime, and I wouldn't be surprised if-"

"I had a reason!" Alfred blurted, not wanting to hear what Arthur had to say. "I was working on something, and I was looking for someone, and I thought you were with them and-"

"Alfred," Eduard said calmly, and the American took a deep breath.

"David Smith," Alfred muttered, dropping onto a small sofa. "I've been following him, and-"

"Tell me you didn't break into his house and shoot the place up," Arthur grumbled.

"I didn't! I mean, I broke in a few times, but _he_ was the one shooting at _me_! See, he's this bad guy, so we've been trying to hunt him down and figure out where he's-"

"Alfred, I don't care," Arthur grumbled.

"But you do!" Alfred said, but he was cut off when Eduard muttered his name and sent him a glare. "Trafficking."

"You're doing the drug case, not me," Arthur said, though he shifted slightly, and Alfred was sure he was at least interested.

"Humans."

Arthur stiffened. Eduard busied himself with his computer, and Alfred clasped his hands. The room was left in an awkward silence, and Alfred felt as though the room had dropped a few degrees.

"How did you come to that?" Arthur asked, his voice a lot lower.

"Syria." Alfred was beginning to talk faster. "I was passing through, Turkey to Iraq, shit like that. Heard some rumors about women and kids being shipped out. Then this woman in Iraq, she said her kid was taken. She said she had to find him, but she couldn't leave, and then I started looking, and Eduard showed up, and-"

"Enough."

Alfred looked up nervously at Arthur's face, and he gulped when he saw the frown.

"If you expect me to listen, then slow down. Otherwise, I'm pulling out the cuffs and taking you in for breaking and entering."

Alfred swallowed, then he unclasped his hands and rubbed his palms on the knees of his jeans.

"Right," he muttered. "Yeah. Just... Yeah."

* * *

><p>AN: I wrote this about a year ago, before the issues in Syria became... well, what they are now. The current happenings in Syria are not present in this fic.

Also, most of the info on trafficking in this fic has been researched somewhat in depth (and will become more obvious in later chapters). It's been a while since I looked into it, but Syria is one of the countries where a lot of trafficking happens.

The more you know~


	9. Chapter 9

__A/N: Oh hey, I kinda forgot about this today. Oops. Should probably trigger warn for violence, death, etc.

Thanks for the comments! I'll get around to responding one of these days. I read every one, and try to respond to as many as I can.

* * *

><p><em>1.5 years earlier<em>

* * *

><p>Alfred had always wanted to make a difference. He had been a playful child, always dressing up as various superheroes and running around claiming that he was there to help people, and vanquish the evil that was his brother (Matthew had never really forgiven him for all of the bruises).<p>

He had wanted to join the military, but his mother had protested. She had hated the thought of him at war, and to appease her resentment and anger he had rethought things. He had questioned his choice, and one night, when he was watching the news, it had hit him.

Journalism.

He could still make a difference, but without the death that constantly lingered on the business end of an M16. Instead, he would use his camera and his charisma to deliver the news, telling about the endless struggle overseas, the tiny miracles that could bolster hope in a community, and the information that people thrived on to placate their curiosity and enrich their boring lives.

He was suddenly enthusiastic. He had eagerly looked into the career, turning away from the military and aiming towards college. His brother had followed him (or maybe he was doing that in the beginning-he could never tell, as Matt was way too quiet), and they had both succeeded. Sure, Matt had been better at a lot of things. He was the writer, and his grades had always been better. But Alfred had been driven. He had found a job at the same time as his brother, and they had gone to opposite coasts.

And then Alfred had gone overseas.

He had been excited, if a little bit nervous. He was going to be with the troops, reporting the news and becoming a part of history. He had been through training to prepare himself for the obstacles of the foreign land, and he was prepared. He had another experienced journalist with him, an ally, someone to ask for direction in time of need (though he doubted he would have that kind of trouble).

"C'mon kid!"

Alfred looked back over his shoulder, tearing his eyes from the buildings that lined the street. His partner stood twenty feet behind him, gesturing with an arm. He didn't seem all that bothered by the destruction around them, something Alfred was sure he would chalk up to experience.

"We're going to meet the troops."

Alfred nodded and turned back, swallowing and pushing the destruction to the back of his mind. Jason was a cool guy. He had chatted with the first soldiers they had met, recognizing some of them and exchanging jokes. Alfred had remained silent, unsure of what he was supposed to do.

"We're going to hang around for a few days before we do anything. Get used to the place."

"Right."

Jason raised an eyebrow at him. "What happened to the "hero" from a few days ago?"

Alfred shrugged and looked around. "It's just... _different._"

Jason didn't say anything. He simply waved to another soldier and waited for Alfred to climb in the humvee before he followed.

"It's nothing like the States," Jason finally said. "Remember that. Be polite, but remember that being _too_ polite can be a bit... annoying, to some of them. They like talking to a human. Don't separate yourself just because you're writing a story."

Alfred nodded, and Jason slapped his shoulder. "Act normal, Al. That's the best you can do."

* * *

><p>The first days weren't easy. There was a lot to learn, from topics avoided during conversation to camera maintenance in the field. No politics, no religion. Favorite foods were okay, news were fine. Battle was okay, in moderation, but it was a tired out topic.<p>

"So it's the daily life?" a soldier asked Alfred as he popped a cracker into his mouth and chewed, looking over the table at the journalist. "Sounds pretty cool. How long you stayin'?"

Alfred shrugged. "A year? Two? Not really sure. Depends on conditions I guess."

The soldier watched him in silence, noting the other journalist that entered through the main doors and headed straight for their table.

"They offered to take us out," Jason said. "I guess it's time for you to start thinking about what you're going to tell the people." He tousled Alfred's hair and walked back out of the cafeteria, no soldiers bothering to look after him. Alfred frowned and righted his hair, and the soldier across from him frowned.

"Make it a good one," he said before Alfred could stand. "Let 'em know we're still here, an' we're still human."

Alfred blinked, then he nodded and waved before hurrying from the building.

Jason was waiting for him outside.

"You gettin' used to things yet?" Jason asked when Alfred caught up to him.

"They're good guys."

"So don't hide anything when you write that article," Jason said. "Most of them've been through hell. A lot of people are mad at 'em for something they have no control over. They just want people to understand. They're here, and they're fighting. They don't have their families or friends with them, they only have each other."

Alfred nodded as Jason led him to the vehicles, and Jason frowned.

"You'll understand soon enough."

* * *

><p>It took a week, but Alfred began to understand what Jason had meant.<p>

The soldiers hadn't trusted him at all when they met him. The kind words had been a ruse, something to cover their suspicion of his intentions.

They all believed that he was there to spread propaganda and report biased information in order to sell a paper. Some didn't even bother to fake a smile for him, and glared at him outright. Some even watched _Jason_ with suspicion despite his many visits and his time spent with the soldiers. Alfred had thought that Jason was better with them, but that was apparently only his naivety.

The soldiers were slow in accepting him, but even he could tell when they started to change (and that said a lot, because his brother had always antagonized him about how he couldn't read the atmosphere, or whatever the hell it was). Small talk increased, there were more jokes, and even the rides and patrols seemed more comfortable.

Months passed, and while he had never been in any major situations (there had been a few fire fights, and quite a few scares, but the adrenaline rush during those times had erased the fear and kicked him into survival mode), he could feel the location getting to him.

It may not have felt much like it when he was playing basketball with the soldiers, but he was in a war zone. When the news came in that a company had been attacked, there would be silence, guilt, flickers of relief at being spared, and then life would continue, albeit at a much slower pace.

Alfred didn't know what people said about his writing. He would send out articles and pictures, from the daily life and the patrols, and the magazine would print them and release them to the public. He was lost in the new world around him, listening to the stories of the other soldiers, taking in the destruction and the repair.

That was how he had met her.

He had heard the rumors in Syria. He knew that trafficking was present in the world, but he had never imagined being in a place where it was taking place. He had heard about the women being shipped into and out of the country, but a conversation he had passed had caught his ear. He had shaken his head at that time, but it was harder to ignore when a woman was clinging to your shirt and sobbing her eyes out as she spoke in fragmented English.

The soldiers had aimed their guns. Alfred had raised a hand, swallowing and trying to hear the soft words she spoke.

_"Trade... my son... sold... crime people... bad..."_

She had continued on, her words running together and mixing with her tears. She had tried to make him understand, how she couldn't leave the country, how she was caught there, unable to find her son, the only family she had left, a young boy of ten.

Her words had eventually stopped, the silence only broken by the sobs that continued. He had awkwardly patted her back, the troops watching with something akin to surprise. His mind had been burdened with the thought of slave children, and then his dreams were filled with chains.

That was the first time he had broken his contract. He had lied to his boss, had told him that the woman was crying over the death of a husband in his article. He hadn't even told the other soldiers what the woman had said in her low, raspy voice as her bony fingers twisted into his shirt. He had told them the same lie he had told his boss.

And that lie had festered within him. He was honest. He had always been truthful, hating liars. But something within him made him remain silent.

Maybe those insecurities that had begun to make themselves apparent had resulted in making that mistake. If he had told the truth, then maybe he would have remained in the Middle East for a while longer, alongside the soldiers, telling their stories to the world, in an effort to help people understand them.

It had been a routine patrol. They had invited him along, had joked with him. He had watched outside the humvee with thoughtful eyes as he talked to the soldiers, and he had wondered at how people could survive in the destruction, and how somewhere could be so much different from home. He had also thought about the missing boy, torn from his mother's arms and traded away.

The attack seemed normal. They had been under fire before. The soldiers had leapt to attention, guns blazing as Alfred prepared himself.

But he hadn't been able to prepare for what came next.

He had been yanked from the humvee by a soldier named Rob. He hadn't understood what was happening, but he took in that he was supposed to run. He ran alongside the soldiers as something hit the humvee, and then there was unbearable heat behind him, threatening to grab at his back. Someone was shouting on a radio, redirecting another patrol for backup as they ran through the streets, dodging around debris and praying that they would escape whatever was bent on taking them.

Soldiers would position themselves behind barricades and around corners, and then aim towards their enemy and let out a burst of gunfire. Alfred had been pulled around the corner of a house with Rob, and he had ducked down. What was it like, to live with the constant rattle of bullets and death? He tried to imagine what the boy had felt in this place, living alone with his mother, and then being taken away.

Had he paid attention, he would've heard the first shot hit the wall mere feet to his right, on the opposite side of where Rob was. Instead, he felt the second shot as it ripped through his shoulder, and he had both felt and seen the crimson begin its steady stream down his body.

The third shot hit him in his side, and by that time he was crumpled on the ground, gasping for breath and trying to force his lungs to work through the pain. Rob had felt him fall and had redirected his line of sight, screaming "Man down!" into the radio fastened around his neck. He had taken the sniper, but his redirected aim meant that the one that he had originally held at bay had a clean shot at Rob's head.

And he had taken it.

* * *

><p>The next month was a blur.<p>

He remembered how his hearing had seemed to go during the fight, leaving everything feeling distant. He had felt so detached, staring at the blood on his hands, on the ground, and then at Rob.

He didn't have a face anymore. The bullet had... Alfred wanted to feel sick. He wanted to throw up, to do anything but see the image before him, but he couldn't force himself to turn away. He felt numb, and he felt heavy.

He didn't remember what happened after that. He remembered seeing faces, hazy and blotched, as they peered down at him. He remembered the feeling of something down his throat, in his arms.

They said he woke occasionally, but that he remembered nothing. He would wake, shout, sleep. An endless cycle that lasted for over a week.

And when he finally woke up, fully aware of what was around him, only Jason was there to greet him, a sad smile on his face and a newspaper in his lap.

"I guess we'll all miss you," Jason had told him.

Again, Alfred didn't understand what he was saying.

But he understood completely when he was released, and the soldiers greeted him at the platform to say "good-bye" before he returned home.

He was relieved to be going back. He felt he had made some sort of difference in the world, that he had changed something. He had told people the stories of the soldiers, he had (hopefully) rekindled the faith they had in their fighters, their brothers, their family.

But deep down, the dark eyes of a Middle Eastern child that had been separated from his mother watched him from the depths of his heart.

And he knew that he hadn't done anything worthwhile when it came to that boy and the others like him.

And he felt like a failure.


	10. Chapter 10

The room had fallen into an uncomfortable silence. Alfred had his head bowed, staring at the floor between his knees as he supported his head with his hands. He took a deep breath.

He hadn't left anything out.

Why? Why had he told Arthur everything? He hadn't even told Eduard everything about it.

But he needed someone on the inside. He needed a cop to help them do something they couldn't, and-

"Why are you asking me to do this?" Arthur demanded, and Alfred looked up. "This should have gone to higher authorities. You should have reported this a long time ago, Alfred. I'm not the person that can do this for you."

"We can't go to other cops!" Alfred blurted. "I looked! Well, I mean, Ed looked, an' some of 'em knew! Some of 'em were buyers! Some helped transport them! If I told them I'd probably get killed!"

"I can't help you with this," Arthur grumbled, and Alfred stared at him in disbelief.

"I just told you everything!" Alfred shouted, and he stood. "How the hell can you live with yourself, ignor-"

"Will you belt up?" Arthur cut Alfred off. "I don't have time to pay attention to your case. I can give you the name of some people that can help, but it's not me."

"But you're-"

"I'm on paid leave until further notice," Arthur said, and Alfred stopped. "I've been receiving death threats. Someone broke into the garage at the station and cut the brakes on my car. Four teenagers were murdered; all of them matched the profile of the one I'm looking for. Two of them were found at that rave when we raided the place. My boss decided that I should stay away from the office and concentrate on keeping my ass away from people that don't like me." Arthur narrowed his eyes. "Like I said: I'm not the cop you want."

Eduard looked over at Alfred, but the American didn't catch his look. He was staring at Arthur in shock, his mouth hanging open slightly and his eyes wide. His glasses were slightly ajar from when he had turned his head, and Alfred looked almost... _scared._

"We were in there," Alfred muttered. "What if he had... I..."

"He was after me," Arthur grumbled. "He left a letter with my name on it with the bodies."

"What'd the letter say?"

"Dunno." Arthur shrugged. "We don't have a translator at the station."

"You..." Alfred shut his mouth again and tried to think of something to say. "What..?"

"Half of the notes were in Russian. I don't know what the other ones were."

At that, Eduard looked up, visibly confused. Arthur didn't fail to notice that fact, and he glanced over.

"Why Russian?" Eduard asked quickly.

"Cyrillic characters," Arthur told him. "And the other... Well, who knows. No one could name it."

"Maybe it was Arabic," Eduard muttered. "Or some other Middle Eastern language."

"Huh?" Alfred looked over and stared at Eduard. The Estonian was typing on his laptop as though possessed, though his face had returned to its former detached appearance.

"Alfred went to the rave for a story on drugs," Eduard muttered. "He-" Eduard stopped and looked over at Arthur. "If you're not in on this, then you should leave."

"You're not stopping halfway through an explanation to get rid of me," Arthur said, and with that he sat down in a chair. "Continue."

Eduard frowned but continued. "Alfred went to the rave searching for drugs. You went, I imagine, to search for that girl. After the rave, you found four dead girls that looked like her. How did they die?"

"No visible wounds. No autopsy report."

"So they were probably poisoned. Overdose, anything like that. Drugs. Alfred's article was about illegal drugs that have been appearing in the country, drugs that are mixes of multiple chemical agents and toxic substances. Meth mixed with ecstasy, et cetera. If those women were killed with that drug, then there's..."

"The drugs and Arthur's girl are connected?" Alfred asked loudly.

Eduard seemed unwilling to say anything further. He glared at his computer screen, drumming his fingers on the countertop.

"Eddie?"

"My contact is Russian."

"Millions of people speak Russian. It's not exactly rare."

"But is it really a coincidence?" Eduard watched Arthur carefully, attempting to measure his reaction.

Arthur sighed. He didn't want to deal with this. He _really_ didn't. He had enough to worry about, he didn't have to start thinking about these other issues. He was more concerned about going home, checking his locks, and making sure that no one tried to blow up his house in the middle of the night.

He also really didn't want to be in Alfred's presence.

"I can't help you," he finally said, and he stood. "I won't tell. Just stay out of my house. Don't hunt me down. I have my own problems to deal with. I can't take on yours as well."

Alfred stared in silence as Arthur walked to the door. He opened it without a look back, then pulled the door shut behind him and left.

* * *

><p>What does someone do when they don't have any work to do in the indeterminate future?<p>

That was the dilemma that Arthur faced upon returning home. He locked the door, checked all of his windows, then sat back and tried to figure out what to do. He was without anything to do. He had a television, but he hated American television. He had a computer, but there was nothing interesting to do.

He was half tempted to take up fishing. He heard that old men would spend hours waiting for the damned fish to suck up a worm, so it was possible he could blow time on the bleeding sport until he was back in his office.

If only he could forget about Alfred's damned story. It would make everything easier. He didn't want to think about how people in his city were being sold for perverse pleasure while he was stuck inside, wondering when he'd get the go-ahead to return to work without having to worry about getting shot in his office.

He thought back to the warehouse. The dead girls. The careful preservation of the crime scene as they searched for evidence. The other bodies found in the surrounding area.

_Katherine Walker._

Eduard's idea was a long shot, and Arthur didn't want to think that it was true. He knew that Eduard was half tempted to say that Walker had been traded. He could also tell that Eduard was not someone that would grasp blindly at straws.

He didn't want to lose the case, and he didn't want someone that he had been placed in charge of to die (even if he had been removed from the case). He didn't want to accept the idea of trafficking drugs and people in his city.

He didn't want to accept any of this, but the seed had been planted. It was stuck in his head, and nothing he did allowed him to forget it.

Arthur sat at his kitchen table in silence, fingering the floral design on his tea cups as he drank. He stared blankly at the wall, drumming the fingers of his free hand on the table.

When the knock came at his door, he didn't react. He waited for the next knock, then slowly stood and slid open the drawer next to his sink. He removed the gun within, checked that it was loaded, and kept his finger on the safety as he moved towards the door.

He waited for the next knocks before he glanced through the peephole, then he yanked open the door.

"Damn it, Francis, what the hell-" He was cut off when Francis shoved a box at him, and he stumbled back.

"Help me with these," Francis demanded. "There's no way in hell I'm doing this case on my own, with all the shit I've already been given."

* * *

><p>Alfred stared at the ceiling, laying back on his bed in the dark. He kept his eyes shut, his clasped hands covering his eyes.<p>

He should never have told Arthur. He should have known that Arthur would ignore everything he said. He had heard the stories about the guy's shitty attitude. He had just figured that after that night, when Arthur had actually taken care of and helped him, he had been a good guy.

He had been wrong.

Alfred turned over and grumbled something as a piece of paper crinkled beneath his body, and he pulled his hands away from his face and tugged it out. The picture of a soldier stared back at him from the newspaper clipping, and he let it fall off the side of the bed.

He was back to the beginning. He had nothing but Eduard and his contacts. He had nothing for his job, and nothing for that woman's little boy.

* * *

><p>Arthur slowly moved the beer bottles away from the table, rinsing them in the sink and pressing the back of his hand to his forehead. His head killed, and he grimaced at the thought that he hadn't even had a lot to drink. Francis, the bleeding git, had drunken more than half of it while they read through the papers that covered the table. Arthur glanced through the archway to the living room, at the Frenchman sleeping on the couch, and he wondered if he should move the papers from the table and try to organize things.<p>

He left the bottles in the sink, then grabbed the cordless phone on the wall when it began to ring, hoping that it wouldn't wake the sleeping Francis.

"Kirkland," Arthur answered.

"Arthur, your note was translated." Kiku sounded almost confused by his words, and Arthur leaned back against the wall, stifling a yawn. "'They don't have to die.' That's what it said."

"'They didn't have to die'?"

"No, it's 'they don't'. The translator emphasized the word choice. He said it's a future tense, not past."

Arthur clicked off the living room and kitchen lights, then slowly made his way to the bedroom. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"You're the detective, not me," Kiku was quick to point out. "I'm just the analyst."

Arthur hummed and muttered his goodbyes, dropping the phone on the stand by his bed and pulling a pair of pants from the closet to sleep in.

_They don't have to die._

The message shook him, and his mind raced. Walker had to still be alive. Someone _like_ Walker had to still be alive. Was the letter a warning, or an invitation? What if the Russian was the same as Eduard's contact? What if the trafficking shite was actually connected with his (_because it was still his case, damn it_) missing girl?

He fell into the bed without bothering to change. He was flustered, and all he could think of doing at that moment was falling into the slumber he so desperately needed, and worrying about the case when he had rest and a clear head.

But he was sure it would still be just as difficult. If anything, the case became more complex as time went on.


	11. Chapter 11

It was the rustling that woke Arthur. That was what pissed him off the most. He grumbled something and dug his fingers into his pillow. He picked it up and turned to throw it. "Francis, you bleeding git, get out of my-"

He froze. The pillow never left his fingers. Instead, he found himself staring at the barrel of a pistol with wide eyes, looking _down_ the barrel into the chamber, where he was sure a bullet waited.

Nothing moved in the room. The wind whistled outside, and Arthur swallowed. He removed his eyes from the gun and slid them upward, falling on the man holding the gun.

At least, he thought it was a man. The large trenchcoat and the ski mask with the dark glasses made it impossible to tell, but someone that tall had to be a guy.

Arthur kept his body still, and he watched carefully as the man patted the bed, smoothing the disturbed blankets and then carefully setting a small white envelope down on the blue comforter, propping it up against the wooden frame of the bed. He never removed the pistol from Arthur's face, and then he raised his gloved hand to his face, and pressed his index fingers to his lips as a sign to keep Arthur silent.

Arthur felt a chill run down his spine, and then the man was gone. He barely saw him leave, the coat hiding him in the darkness, and he never made a sound. Arthur didn't dare move, until he was sure (or at least, pretty sure) the stranger was gone. He never heard his front door, but he leapt to his feet and yanked on a pair of slacks, then grabbed a jacket. He rushed to the front door (it was locked), then he shouted.

"Damn it, Francis! Get up!"

He heard the Frenchman fall off the couch, and he started to pile the papers from the table and into a box.

"What the hell do you want?" Francis groaned from the other room, and Arthur slammed the lid on the box.

"Get up, get dressed! Someone was just in here!"

"Wh-"

"Later! Get the fuck up and out!"

Francis was moving them, spurred on by the urgency in the Brit's voice, and Arthur whipped a plastic bag from a cupboard under his sink. He ran back to the bedroom and used the bag to collect the letter, keeping his skin away from the surface. He left for the door, pushing Francis ahead of him and yanking the box from the table. He slammed the door shut behind him and thumped down the stairs, ignoring Francis's demands for answers and the cold that bit at his skin. He said nothing, instead shoving the box into the backseat of Francis's car and climbing into the drivers' seat. Francis jumped into the other seat, flustered and confused, and Arthur gunned the engine.

"Arthur, what the hell is going on?" Francis demanded. "And stop driving like that! My god, my car-"

"He was IN my house!" Arthur shouted. "Aimed a gun at my head! He dropped a fucking letter on my bed!"

Arthur panted as he jerked the wheel to the side, thankful for the fact that no one was out in the middle of the night. Francis had fallen silent, staring out the window with wide eyes. He had his hands clasped, his knuckles turning white so that they stood out in the darkness of the car. He looked over at Arthur, taking in his thin lips and pale features, his green eyes that darted back and forth.

He had never seen the man shaken before. But this? Arthur was terrified. His fingers trembled on the steering wheel, and he chewed on his lip.

"Where are we going?" Francis finally asked, and Arthur flexed his fingers.

"Station." His voice shook. "Better protection there."

"He's been in there before," Francis whispered. "At least... Someone has. Your brakes-"

"I know."

"The letter-"

"I know," Arthur repeated. "But it's better than my place. A lot better."

Francis turned his eyes away and looked back out the window. "What the hell is going on?"

"I don't know."

* * *

><p>There were times that Alfred loved having Elizabeta as a boss. She was caring, sharp, quick-witted, smart... She was everything anyone could hope to be (even if she did have a few <em>odd<em> quirks).

Alfred had barely been at work for three hours before Elizabeta had hunted him down, asking him about his night, and about his plans for the weekend. She had even invited him over for the coming weekend, saying that her husband was being annoying and that she wanted to "expose" the man to some fun.

"Honestly, he has enough stress as it is," Elizabeta sighed. "What with the break in and the stalkers... Ugh."

"Break in?" Alfred looked back up to see Elizabeta nod. "What happened?"

"Someone broke into Arthur Kirkland's house," Elizabeta murmured, and Alfred stiffened. "That poor man... Roderich said whoever did it went right to his bed and held a gun in his face."

"Is he okay?" Alfred demanded. Elizabeta didn't appear to notice how quiet he had become.

"Arthur called us from the station at three this morning. He was fine. He was probably scared, but I don't know. It's impossible to tell with him." Elizabeta crossed her arms and swung her legs off the side of the desk. "But Roderich's going to tell him to leave. I'm sure of it. Paid vacation. Get the hell out of town. All that stuff." She sighed, then her eyes seemed to light up. "You should go with him!"

Alfred blinked. "Wai-what? I don't even kno-"

"He's being told to leave town, and I'm telling you to do the same." Elizabeta grinned. "You look tired. I mean..." She lifted his chin with a finger, and he wondered if she had ever gone to the sensitivity seminars that all employees were required to go to. "You have bags under your eyes. You're a bit... _pale_, too."

"Just some sleeping problems," Alfred muttered, pulling his head away and looking back towards his computer screen. "Uh... Doesn't that make your husband uncomfortable, when you do that to people?"

"Do what?" she chirped, and Alfred frowned. Did she seriously not realize what she was doing, or was she just... _like that?_

He shook his head. No point thinking about it.

"You know, taking a break and coming back to it could help," Elizabeta pointed out. "Stop taxing your brain. Go on vacation for a week or so, then come back and start over. No one expects the world from you."

"Right," Alfred muttered, and he smirked. "Of course not."

* * *

><p>"I'm Kiku Honda," the man said as he led Alfred through the halls. "I heard Mr. Edelstein invited you."<p>

"His wife did," Alfred corrected, and Kiku chuckled.

"I've heard of her," Kiku admitted. "Rather, I've heard she's rather straight-forward."

"That's an understatement," Alfred groaned, following Kiku into an elevator. "So what does he do here?"

"Arthur?" Kiku nodded. "He never stays in one place. He'll patrol one day, work as a detective the next." He chuckled. "He's very impatient. He doesn't like staying in one place for too long. He really gets on Mr. Edelstein's nerves."

"Elizabeta talks like he's the best guy in the world," Alfred said. "She keeps telling me that I should consult him on a story I'm doing."

Alfred didn't fail to notice the look that passed over Kiku's face, but he couldn't decipher it. He kept his eyes forward, and Kiku chattered on about Arthur's good habits, and said something about how Elizabeta occasionally dropped in with snacks for the officers (and Alfred felt that Kiku was another one of Elizabeta's good friends. He supposed it was understandable; she was very sociable).

"His office is at the end of the hall," Kiku said with a small smile, and he gestured with a hand as they passed the doors on either side of the hall.

"He gets his own office?" Alfred sounded impressed, and he slapped Kiku's back (he really liked the man).

Then there was a crack, and Alfred yanked on the back of Kiku's shirt, pulling him back against the wall and sliding down to the floor. His heart raced, and he looked towards the door at the end of the hall.

"Was that a gun?" Kiku demanded, his voice low as he spoke. Alfred nodded, and he swallowed.

Did he dare to go in there?

* * *

><p>Arthur had never had to try so hard to keep his panic in check. He had arrived at the station with Francis screaming something about traffic laws in the passenger's seat, then he'd parked the car and rushed inside the building through the garage. He had snatched the first phone he'd seen off a secretary's desk, had checked his voice, then he'd dialed Roderich's home number.<p>

Elizabeta had answered. He hadn't even managed to finish a sentence before she had handed the phone to her husband. He had heard them dressing, and then Roderich had told him to go to the offices upstairs.

So Arthur had paced for an hour, and when Roderich had arrived, the two had shuffled inside Roderich's office to talk.

He couldn't stay in town. That much was obvious. Two break ins in less than a week (even if Arthur knew who one of them was) was serious. The fact that there had been _notes_ (one at a murder site and one in Arthur's bed) made it seem worse.

Kiku had been called, and the note had been scanned and sent to a translator. They waited impatiently, needing to know the message that had been left with Arthur. It was as thought the envelope was the key to _something_, even if they had no idea what that something was.

Arthur waited in his office impatiently, drumming his fingers on the surface of his desk as Roderich paced in front of the door.

"This isn't looking good for you, Arthur." Roderich looked out the window at the streets below. "We found Smith dead yesterday. You had his case. We found four dead girls that matched your abduction victim. Someone cut the brakes in your car. They broke into your house. Twice." Roderich's eyes passed over Arthur, and he frowned. "What am I supposed to do?"

Arthur didn't have an answer for him. The two stayed there, silent, Roderich pacing while Arthur tapped keys on his computer. They didn't start conversations, and they didn't look at each other. They remained silent.

An hour passed, and Arthur's eyes flicked over the glowing red icon on his computer, clicking it quickly to open the message. Kiku's polite words appeared, with the original message (in Russian) below, and at the very bottom, the translation with notes.

"You get it?" Roderich asked quickly, and Arthur nodded as he scanned the letter.

"Not very interesting... 'Close-minded'... 'Not looking far enough'... 'Look outside the box'..." Arthur printed the note, as well as a copy for Roderich. His superior grabbed the note from the printer, and he glanced over it quickly. "He keeps making references to walking... 'The pacer,' 'the wanderer'..."

Roderich nodded and looked down when his cell phone rang. He pulled it out and flipped it open, nodding to Arthur before leaving the room.

Arthur took his own print-out and looked it over, standing and moving to the front of his desk. He knew that it had to mean something. On the surface it appeared vague, but the references to walking (_Walker_) had to be a part of it.

Arthur brought his thumb to his mouth and chewed on the nail. What the hell did it all mean?

Arthur turned and began to pace, muttering under his breath. He kept his eyes locked on the letter, his skin shivering, and he looked up quickly when something moved. There was a red dot on the wall, approaching him.

Then there was the shot, and he hit the ground.


	12. Chapter 12

Arthur stared out the window, resting his forehead against the glass and watching the endless expanse of trees pass by. The car hummed softly, and he turned the letter over in his hand.

_It missed his head but clipped his arm. Arthur slammed into the floor, grabbing his gun from its holster and crawling into the corner, where he couldn't see the window. He could hear shouting outside, and he looked around carefully for the dot of light._

_The only red in the office was the blood on the wall._

"_Arthur!"_

"_It's a sniper!" Arthur called back, and he clicked off the safety. He felt his arm throb, and he looked down to find that he hadn't only been clipped. A second shot had gone through his upper arm. Likely superficial, but it hurt like a bitch. And it bled._

"_Only a sniper would take your office," Roderich called back. "You think he's still there?"_

"_Can't tell you that," Arthur said. "No laser sight. They might've left."_

_The door was kicked in, and Ludwig crept into the room and in front of Arthur's desk. He locked eyes with the Brit, then looked back towards the door and the seemingly-empty hallway. He motioned with a hand, flicked his finger at Arthur, and then waited._

"_Pull him out!"_

"Wanna stop for a drink?"

Arthur looked over with a frown and shrugged. "Do what you want."

He grabbed hold of the center console as the car swerved, passing another driver and turning into one of the many rest stops situated along the interstate. He grumbled something under his breath, and the man in the driver's seat continued talking about the roads and the places he'd traveled.

"_We're done."_

_Arthur didn't look up from where the paramedic was bandaging his arm. Roderich didn't sound angry; it was more exasperation, and he could tell that his boss/friend was tired._

"_I've let this go on for far too long, Arthur," Roderich continued as he paced. "I should have pulled you after the first break-in. It should never have come to this." He gestured towards the hall (and Arthur's office) with a trembling hand. "It should never have gotten this bad. It's become far too dangerous to keep you here. I'm just... Paid leave. Until we find the bastard, get out of town."_

"_I don't need to leave to-"_

"_I decided this when you called me this morning," Roderich cut him off. "I'm sorry, but I can't see it happening any other way. I talked with Elizabeta-"_

"_God, not her-"_

"_-and you need to leave until this is settled." Roderich looked at Arthur, and he looked genuinely concerned. "And, we both decided that you shouldn't go alone."_

"_Since when has she worked in this office?" Arthur mused, but Roderich ignored his sarcasm._

"_I have everyone working on this case. No one wants a cop killer, and the only person available _does _have some experience."_

"_And who, pray tell, is that?" Arthur grumbled, and Roderich looked behind him. He waved his arm helplessly, and then Arthur was looking at confused blue eyes._

"Dude, pay attention or you're not gettin' anything."

Arthur glared at the man that was standing outside his door expectantly, and he shoved it open. Alfred jumped back to avoid being hit, and Arthur pulled himself out.

"You really are like an old man," Alfred muttered.

"You just have a shitty car," Arthur scowled. "Who needs a car that only sits a few inches off the ground?"

"But it's fast."

Arthur snorted and walked towards the store, digging through his pocket for change.

"Hey, does your arm hurt?" Alfred asked as he followed.

"It was a flesh-wound, Alfred," Arthur muttered, and he yanked open the door before him.

"You're not using it though."

"It's bruised."

Arthur found his way to the back of the store where the large refrigerators were, and Alfred followed slowly, grabbing bags of snacks from the aisles they passed and cramming them into a basket he had nabbed somewhere. Arthur tried to ignore Alfred's voice (_"Do you want some Twizzlers? Oh hey, they have beef jerky! Ooh, what about Ding Dongs? Wait, dude, they have Ho Hos here!"_) behind him as he searched through the refrigerator to find something that was _not_ carbonated, but it was difficult, and Alfred was getting closer (and his voice was getting louder).

"You should try the Mountain Dew," Alfred told him, and Arthur frowned before looking at the flavored waters.

"I don't like soda."

Alfred made a sound behind him as Arthur reached into the cooler for a couple drinks, and he paused. "You driving the entire way?"

"Not like you can," Alfred chuckled.

Arthur went to another door and pulled out a case of beer. Alfred grimaced, but he ignored the movement and instead concentrated on the snacks. "You like potato chips?"

"This is why all of you Americans are unhealthy," Arthur muttered. "Everything is oil and fat with you people." Arthur made his way to the register, balancing the case of beer and the drinks with his uninjured arm and holding the cash he had dug out of his pocket with the other.

"I.D?" the cashier asked, and Arthur set the drink down and pulled out his wallet. The cashier barely glanced at it, and he shoved it back into his pocket. Then Arthur dropped the cash on the counter and collected his drinks. Alfred's check out took longer, as he had managed to fill two basket with snacks and drinks. Arthur said nothing while he waited, and then they left the building for the car, not talking to each other as they shoved the extras in the backseat of the convertible. Arthur climbed in with his water, while Alfred got back behind the wheel with a bag of chips and a Coke.

Alfred pulled out of the parking lot and onto the interstate, one hand on the steering wheel and the other in a bag of chips. Arthur sipped his water and read through the letter that had been left with him, chewing on his bottom lip.

"You're always saying 'your people,' and 'you Americans.' Where're you from? And... I mean, why are you here? If you don't like us, then why'd you move to the US?"

Arthur looked up from the letter and stared at Alfred. He looked out the front window hesitantly, then shrugged. "Don't know, really. Didn't want to stay in England. It's great there but you're never out of driving distance."

Alfred frowned and looked over. "Work was that bad?"

"I just hated my family." Arthur shrugged. "Nothing more than that. The fighting, the shouting, the grief... You must know something about that."

Alfred shrugged. "I guess. I mean, we were pretty good as kids. It was just Mattie and me, and our parents. And Mattie never really stood out."

"Your sister?"

Alfred snorted. "Nah. He's my brother."

Arthur nodded and returned to the letter, but Alfred apparently wasn't done. Now that he had Arthur talking, he wanted to continue.

"So what's in the letter?"

"Insults to my intelligence," Arthur muttered, and he flipped the page over. "References to Katherine Walker. He keeps telling me to 'look outside the box,' whatever the hell that means."

Alfred raised an eyebrow and looked over. "'Outside the box'?"

"Yeah..."

"That's weird," Alfred muttered. "Ed kept saying that his contact was telling him the same thing. He's not informing him anymore. He's just kinda... dropping hints, and riddles. He changed."

Arthur looked over warily. "Has he told you about the Russian?"

"What about 'im?"

Arthur looked out the window, drumming his fingers on his knee. "It's nothing."

"Come on! Tell me!"

"No, Alfred. Not now."

* * *

><p>The motel had a pool.<p>

They were in the middle of nowhere, miles off the interstate and just outside some wooded area. Arthur rarely left the room. He was constantly searching online, sending complaints to Roderich about his travel partner, and occasionally chatting with Eduard about the notes. He kept the letter close, trying to find the truth behind the riddle, and how it was connected to his cases.

Alfred, on the other hand, had the time of his life. He ran around in the forest, swam in the heated pool, and mostly steered clear of Arthur. The double room had two large beds, and even a removable partition to divide them. If they didn't want to see one another, they could sit on their bed and the other would understand that there was nothing to talk about, no reason to interact.

It was a tense understanding. Occasionally one of them (Alfred) would step over the line, and then Arthur would become more cold than he usually was and the motel room would feel like a funeral parlor.

But the same could be said of Alfred. There were times that it was impossible to talk to him, often after he woke in the morning. He creeped Arthur out when he went out to get the paper. The American would just sit on his bed and stare at Arthur as he walked back and forth through the room. However, when Arthur returned, Alfred would be back to his normal, insufferable self, drinking the cheap motel coffee and loudly deciding what he would do for the day.

Arthur was sure he knew what it was. It was hard not to see the confusion and the fear in the other's eyes. And he was positive that it was a memory from that night. It was a night that the younger man wanted to forget, but couldn't. And it was a memory that Arthur was trying to bring back from the recesses of his mind.

He really didn't want to think about it. It was a mistake. The worst mistake he had made. It was something he had never wanted to think of again, but he was sure that something had happened that night, something that he needed to remember.

He was getting closer to remembering. When Alfred was out screwing around, and he was tired from his research, he would lay back in his bed and stare at the ceiling, the grey filling his head until his eyes fell out of focus and he wasn't sure if he still had his eyes open, or even if he was awake.

The memories were short in length, brief bursts of hazy bodies and flashing lights. There was nothing conclusive, and the clearest memories were filled with sweat, lips and teeth.

But while the memories used to just repeat in his head, an endless loop of sex and pleasure, new images were beginning to force themselves into his head.

The girl that had asked him for a favor. The friendly bartender. A man with a scarf. Something about the man being on vacation.

The man had had an accent. It had sounded familiar, and he had said something about the drinks—the drug laced drinks, they would find out later—and he had emphasized something. His vacation. He had wanted to make a point of his vacation. He had been so enthusiastic.

Had he been Russian?

Arthur groaned and turned over in his bed, rubbing at his ear. They had to have been something important there. What if that had been the man with the letters? Arthur wasn't sure how tall the man in the scarf was, but he seemed tall in his memories. And the person in his house had been a giant.

Arthur opened his eyes and stared at the blue wall between the beds, glaring at it as though it held the answers he needed. He should get up. He needed to eat, and there was probably a response from Roderich, about how the case was going (SWAT had gone in and searched the surrounding buildings immediately after the shooting, but had found nothing) on his computer.

He heard the door open and shut, and then Alfred called out.

"I found a restaurant a few miles out," Alfred said loudly. "You wanna go?"

"I'll be out in a minute."


	13. Chapter 13

He hadn't been drinking.

_Arthur leaned back against the counter, staring at the large man that walked towards him. It was hard not to stare. With the scarf that trailed behind him, and the fact that he towered above all he passed, he was impossible to miss._

_The man said nothing as he took the bar stool beside Arthur, pulling a flask from his jacket pocket and raising it to his lips. Arthur was sure he smelled vodka before the man capped it and hid it away once more._

"_Having fun?" the man asked him, looking over with wide eyes. Arthur tried to distinguish the color, shrugging in answer to his question. "Too much people," the man agreed. "Not enough drink."_

_Arthur chuckled at that, settling back on his stool and turning so that he could rest an elbow on the counter. "What's your name?"_

"_Ivan," the man said, smiling. Arthur wondered at how innocent (almost childlike) it looked. "And you?"_

"_Arthur."_

"_Nice to meet," Ivan told him. The taller man began to tap his finger on the counter before him, humming._

"_You just move here?" Arthur asked, finding himself more and more interested in the person beside him. _

"_Nyet." The man smiled bitterly. "I come for business. My sisters come here for vacation. They are cute things. My younger, she has problems. She went with my older, on vacation. I told them not to go. But they still went. And they lost, in some Illinois," he snarled the last word, and Arthur blinked. Ivan noticed Arthur's reaction, and chuckled. "Nyet, nyet... They lost, but I am finding them. They be very embarrassed when they return."_

"_The US is a big place." Arthur nodded his head. "Easy to get lost. Illinois is terrible. You'll find them, I'm sure." Arthur looked up as the bartender neared them, and he accepted the beer offered. Ivan suddenly appeared tense as he watch him drink, almost wary, but Arthur smiled. "Gotta fit in somehow," Arthur told him. "Otherwise I wouldn't."_

_Ivan frowned almost mournfully at Arthur's words. "I must find my sisters, in Illinois," he said slowly. "I wish you remember this talk."_

_Arthur didn't have time to think about what the man had said before Ivan was leaving, bumping into a blond man and knocking him towards the bar. Arthur didn't spare the boy a glance. He glared at the beer in the other's hand that had almost ended up in his lap, and then he grabbed his own drink and left his stool, letting himself be pulled into the crowd._

_There was something in the air. It was obvious. Or, it was just a really friendly rave._

_Women were everywhere. Gyrating bodies were up against him, and some brunette locked lips with him before moving on, her fingers trailing along his chest. Everything was brighter, as though the darkness didn't exist, but the clarity wasn't there. Everything appeared blurred in his eyes, and the volume wasn't consistent, jumping between silent and deafening._

_Something had happened. Someone had tripped, almost knocking Arthur's beer from his hand. But another hand had steadied his, and the blond from before was standing beside him, glasses appearing to swell and shrink in the weird lighting._

"_Don't let go," the blond told him with a laugh, a too-loud laugh that really wasn't that loud at all. "Can't afford to lose that."_

"_No, you can't," Arthur told him, feeling his body relax. Everything was better. A girl walked past them, talking about PLUR, and he agreed with her. Hell, he'd agree with anything right about now. Like how that person next to him was touching him, just a little. Their hands were touching, their fingers lined up and placed back-to-back. Then the man said something, and Arthur looked up in confusion._

"_What?" he had to shout to hear above the noise._

"_Your eyes!" the man said, his own eyes wide with wonder. "They're... They're so cool!"_

_Arthur had to think about it. Yeah, his eyes were pretty cool. "Green's a good color!" Arthur agreed with him._

_That was about the time everything went straight to hell. Who knew which man had made the first move. It was a race to the bathroom, but there was no empty stall. That left a random corner, but even Arthur's condition could not force him to fornicate in a corner with a stranger. _

_They had found their way back up the stairs somehow, and out the doors of the old warehouse. They had tried to find somewhere, but had eventually arrived at Arthur's house, panting and groaning and-_

Arthur jolted up and looked around, breathing heavily. Trees swept past the window of the car, and he looked over.

Alfred was watching him with concern, his eyes clouded with worry. "Something wrong?"

"Where are we?" Arthur demanded, his heart racing in his chest.

"Tennessee, why-"

"How long will it take to get to Illinois?"

Alfred ogled at him. "Are you shittin' me?"

"How. Long?"

"Few days, at lea-"

"Let's go then."

Alfred popped a chip in his mouth while he watched Arthur. "Keep your eyes on the road," Arthur muttered as he massaged his temples with his fingers.

"Why are we going to Illinois?" Alfred asked him through the mouthful of chips, and Arthur glared at him.

"You can't tell me you really want to be on vacation."

"This isn't vacation," Alfred pointed out, passing another car and looking ahead. "I'm just here because your boss wanted you to have a partner when you made your escape."

"Elizabeta forced you to take a vacation. I know that doesn't sit right with you."

Alfred frowned. "But I was going to get us a motel room in-"

"_Illinois,_ Alfred."

Alfred huffed and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Arthur was impossible. Totally impossible. He settled back in his seat, not caring if Arthur was having a heart attack or whatever. He just had to find the next exit and get off, then get back on in the other direction and drive back all those miles for nothing.

He looked over, and he frowned.

Arthur looked scared.

"You have a bad dream?" Alfred asked, and Arthur shook his head.

"No. No, I just... I think I met the person that's been sending the letters."

Alfred's foot had started to slip from the gas, but he caught it and sped up. "Seriously? What's that got to do with-"

"He said he had to go to Illinois. Hell, he repeated it a few times. Wanted me to remember it."

"When did you-"

"The rave. He must've known the drinks were drugged."

Arthur realized what he was saying at the same time Alfred made the connection.

Arthur remembered that night. If he remembered a fucking conversation, then he had to remember the _other_ thing. Alfred kept his eyes on the road ahead and refused to look over at Arthur, who had quickly turned to look out the window.

"Well, Chicago is the crime capitol of the country," Alfred offered. Arthur was digging around for the letter, and Alfred swallowed. "I guess looking outside the box meant get the hell out of the office."

Arthur didn't answer.

* * *

><p>"So what do we do when we get there?" Alfred asked when he left the bathroom, rubbing his head with the towel. Arthur was flicking through channels on the television, his eyes narrowed and his back hunched.<p>

"We have to find sources. We have to find some way to get a location, and then call someone in."

"And what are we looking for?" Alfred asked him.

"Women."

Alfred stopped. He gaped at Arthur, stunned by his words. "Women?"

"He said his sisters got lost in Illinois, and that he had to find them. He kept saying that they had been on vacation. What if his sisters were grabbed for trafficking? Or, he may have been lying about his sisters, and he really meant that the women were there."

"You trust this guy? You met him at a rave." Alfred sat down on his bed and watched Arthur carefully. The Brit didn't seem to care.

"What else do you have? Admit it, Alfred. You have nothing. No leads, no sources, nothing that could help you get any closer to cracking the entire thing." Arthur looked over. "You wanted my help-"

"-you turned us down-"

"-and now I'm offering to give it." Arthur watched Alfred intently, and the other met his gaze. They didn't speak, and then Arthur grabbed his bag and walked to the bathroom. "It's better than nothing, Al. Take what you can get."

Alfred watched the door shut, and he let the towel in his hand fall to the floor. It was pissing him off. He didn't want to do any of this. He had had enough of the trafficking. He had told Eduard so. He didn't care. He wanted one little boy, that was it. Sure, he had wanted to help many in the beginning, but there was only so much one person could do.

He was doing too much. He had taken on too many projects, and as a result, he wasn't getting anything done for any of them. He was surprised he hadn't been fired, with how miserable his work was becoming. He only had one assignment, and he had bungled that up when he had gotten drunk and had sex with the irritable jackass in the bathroom.

Alfred cringed just thinking about it. That was one thing he wished he didn't have to remember. But it was difficult when you were in the middle of a conversation and all you could think about was the guitar tattoo on the guy's back.

Alfred jumped when his phone rang, and he quickly snatched it up. "'Ello?"

"Why'd you call?" the voice on the other end demanded, and Alfred grinned.

"Mattie! Long time no talk!"

"Al, I'm serious. What was that call?"

Alfred picked at a spot on the blanket of his bed, trying to forget about the message he had left his brother on the day before. "What call?"

"Don't screw with me Al, I know where you live."

"I'm not at home now."

"Damn it, I- just what the hell is going on? What'd you mean, 'road trip with a handsome stranger'? And what's with this guy calling me about you finding some woman or something?"

That hit hard. Alfred stared at the phone in his hand, trying to process what his brother had just said. "Someone called you? 'Bout me?"

"About you and some girl! Some Walker chick-"

"You have caller ID, right? What was his number?"

"Wha-I don't know. It was restricted."

"Matt, have you met anyone in the last few days?" Alfred demanded, and the other end of the line went silent. Alfred waited, fear creeping up his spine. "Matt?" No answer. "Matt, wha-"

"Damn it, Al, what the hell have you done?" his brother demanded. "And why are you so concerned about me, if it has to do with you? Don't tell me you lied and told someone you were me again, 'cause it wasn't funny the first time!"

"Matt, I didn't-"

"I really don't need hookers showing up at my door again! Or gang members! Al, _what the hell did you do?_"

"It's a story," Alfred finally relented, covering his eyes with a hand. "I can't really go into details right now, but it's kidnappings, and all kinds of other shit that's annoying an-"

"Got it." Matthew was silent for a moment, and Alfred could hear rustling in the background. "I'm going on vacation."

"Good."

"Don't let them catch you."

"Right."

"Don't make me the only person you talk to when you're doing something incredibly stupid. The more people that know you're out and around, the better." There was a thud, and Alfred tightened his hold on the phone. "Get back home safe. Try not to lose your gun. I love you. Bye."

Matthew hung up, and Arthur chose that time to leave the bathroom. Alfred was staring at the phone in his hand, chewing his lower lip nervously.

"Something wrong?"

Alfred looked up, and he nodded. "They found my brother," he muttered. "Matt's taking off so they don't find him."

Arthur didn't know what to do. He stood still, dumbfounded. Why would they search for Alfred's brother? "They're serious about this," he finally croaked, and Alfred nodded.

"Yeah." Alfred took a deep breath. "Yeah, they are."


	14. Chapter 14

"I hate Chicago."

Arthur didn't answer Alfred's complaints. He was poring over a map of Chicago's streets, trying to find out where someone would be able to hide kidnapped women.

Rather, where _wouldn't _someone be able to hide kidnapped women?

There were warehouses and apartment complexes, offices and homes. Sadly, none of them were advertising women.

"This traffic sucks," Alfred continued his complaining. "And some guy tried to mug me back at the gas station! I thought they were exaggerating when they said that Chicago was the crime capitol of the country!"

"It has the highest crime rate in the country, I think it's called the capitol for a reason," Arthur muttered. "Now hurry and find a place to stay for the night."

Alfred grimaced and started to watch the signs. Arthur was a terrible travel partner. It had taken four days to get to Chicago, with all the motel stops and Arthur picking at Alfred's eating habits. Alfred had resisted the temptation to strangle him, instead becoming more talkative, something that had seemed to piss the Brit off. He would be the first to admit that the talking was almost relaxing, and he enjoyed talking with (_at_) the other man, even if Arthur acted like he had a stick up his ass.

"Where do we want to stay?" Alfred asked him, and Arthur folded up the map.

"Southern part of Chicago, preferably. Cheap motel, but with wifi. I need to find some information online."

"What information?"

Arthur slid the map onto the dash. "You're the expert on human trafficking, so tell me: what are the women used for?"

Alfred looked over. "Well, sweat shops, and servants, brides-"

"Prostitutes." Arthur ignored the sound that Alfred made deep in his throat. "If we want to find the source, we have to start with the products."

"You realize how many prostitutes there are in Chicago?" Alfred muttered, and Arthur shrugged. "You realize how many of them aren't involved in the trafficking?"

"I know the statistics. At least, most of them."

"Right. Because, y'know, a lot of those girls probably aren't involved. How do you find the ones that _are_?"

Arthur shrugged. "We'll figure that out later. Stop at this store."

"Rite-Aid?"

"_Yes. _Now pull the hell over."

Alfred grimaced as he turned into the parking lot, and before he could say a word, Arthur was already out and running to the store, slipping in between the sliding doors. Alfred turned up the radio and hummed to himself, leaning back in his seat and shutting his eyes. It was dark outside. It was also getting colder. He had enjoyed driving with the top down on the convertible, but the farther north they went, the colder it got, and so the top went up. Arthur hadn't complained, but Alfred had put up a fuss about how he would need to pull his jacket out of the trunk, and how it was so cold that it would probably start to snow.

The car shifted when Arthur returned, climbing back into the passenger's seat and tossing a bag into the back. Alfred moved to look in the back seat, but Arthur pointed to the front.

"Hurry up and go. I'd like to get into a room before someone steals our car and leaves us in the ditch."

Alfred nodded, but he looked over at Arthur doubtfully. Wasn't the Brit being way too calm? People wanted him dead. They had been into his house, shot up his office, shot _him_ in the arm, yet he was acting like nothing was wrong. Even with what they were planning on doing.

Speaking of which—what _were_ they planning on doing?

"Arthur, what are we doing?"

"I'm thinking about that."

"Oh." Alfred looked ahead once more, and Arthur pointed towards a lighted sign. Alfred followed his motion and pulled into the motel parking lot. "I'll-"

"I'll get a room. Wait here, because we have to grab something to eat." Arthur was out of the car before Alfred could say a word, and Alfred groaned. He had been working on the trafficking for a long time. He had admitted to himself that he was tired of the story. When Arthur had started to really get involved with the case just days ago, he had been relieved. It had been a weight off his shoulders, handing the story off.

At least, he thought it had been. He was still working on it, doing footwork and trying to give his thoughts on the matter. Before he had been in charge, but now Arthur had taken that position. He wasn't sure if he liked taking orders.

Alfred turned and looked in the back seat, at the plastic bag that had fallen on the floor sometime during the drive. He reached back and touched it, turning over the small boxes within. He pulled one out, but then Arthur was climbing in the car and telling him to get his ass on the road.

"So where're we going?"

"The woman inside said there's a Chinese place down the street. We're going to grab something to eat, then we're going to go to bed. We need a full night of sleep before we even think of starting on this."

Alfred nodded and pulled his hand away from the bag, shifting into gear and driving out.

* * *

><p>Alfred woke to the sound of typing. He didn't move, clenching and unclenching his fists underneath his pillows, turning his face in the fabric. A noise escaped his throat as he stretched his legs, and he slowly opened his eyes.<p>

The sun was rising. The light filtered in through the windows, and he pushed himself up. He attempted to say "good morning" to Arthur, but his yawn prevented him from speaking.

"You're up earlier than usual," Arthur observed, not looking back from his computer. "Good. We have a lot to do."

Alfred blinked against the light and yawned once more. "What're we doin'?"

"You remember our conversation from last night?" Arthur muttered. Alfred hummed his response. "You're going to hire a prostitute."

It took Alfred a moment to process what Arthur had said, then he choked. "I-y-_what?_"

"A prostitute. You're going to hire a prostitute."

Alfred scrambled out of bed and tripped over his sheets, almost falling on the small couch (and Arthur). "Why th' hell'm I- _why can't _you _hire one?_"

"You're younger," Arthur told him. "They'll think you're young and curious. You're also so obnoxiously optimistic that they'll think it's impossible for you to get a date. Maybe you're even trying to compensate for your own insecurities, stemming from the large scar on your stomach."

"How'd you know I have a-" Alfred shut his mouth when he realized how stupid the question was. He looked down at his boxers and began to feel exposed, though he was sure some of that was from the mere _idea_ that he was going to have to walk up to someone and ask them for sex. "Why can't you do it?"

"I'm a cop." Arthur looked up at Alfred, his tone similar to a mother admonishing her child. "I never go anywhere without a gun. There's no way I'm going to be able to pick up a prostitute."

Alfred took a few steps back, then began to dig through his bags for clothes. "How are we supposed to know that she's from the trafficking?"

"That's why we're going to be busy. Go take a shower."

Alfred wanted to argue, or at least demand to know why they were going to be busy, but the glare Arthur sent at him worked to shut him up. He grimaced and escaped to the bathroom, and missed the smirk that lit Arthur's face.

* * *

><p>"I thought you would be someone that loved Aunt Jemima," Arthur muttered when he sipped his tea. Alfred looked at him, then between the two jars of syrup on the table.<p>

"My bro's a fanatic about what he eats," Alfred muttered. "I got used to it. Why does it matter?"

They were at some pancake house on the outskirts of Chicago, settled in a back corner where they could see the rest of the customers. Arthur sipped his tea while Alfred tore into his pancake-egg-bacon special, and the Brit flinched when a piece of food fell on the table near him.

"Our problem is that we need to find women from whatever circle it is. And these girls are likely being watched. They probably don't want to be there, and you have to recognize that fact."

"And how am I supposed to do that?"

"Finish eating and we'll work on it."

Alfred watched the other doubtfully, but continued to shovel food into his mouth. Arthur simply sat across from him and sipped his tea, picking up the newspaper he had left at his side and glancing over the front page. There wasn't anything truly interesting. Political scandals, a few homicides, some child won a scholarship-

"Done."

Arthur looked over. "That was quick." Alfred was grinning triumphantly, his fork in his empty plate and his arms crossed.

"I'm a fast eater," Alfred told him. Arthur shrugged and finished his tea, looking around the restaurant with narrowed eyes.

"In the corner," Arthur said. "See that couple? What do you think about them?"

"What corner?"

"My left, three tables over. By the window." Arthur motioned to the waitress for another cup of tea, and Alfred looked over. "Be discrete."

Alfred glanced back at Arthur before he looked towards the other table. It was a young couple, very young. Probably early twenties. The girl was obviously Hispanic, the boy was white. Judging from their clothing, they weren't poor, or from an upper class family. Maybe lower middle class.

That's what he told Arthur.

"That's great," Arthur murmured, his attention focused on the paper he had once again picked up, "but I don't care about all of that. You really think the women you'll be calling on will show those traits?"

"I guess-"

"Do you think I _care_ if they show those traits?"

Alfred didn't speak.

"All I want to know is whether they want to be there or not. Now, look again and tell me what you think."

Alfred frowned at Arthur, but the Brit seemed far more interested in the crossword puzzle near the back of the paper. Alfred kept his head facing Arthur, but let his eyes watch the people in the corner. He set his elbows on the table and rested his chin in his hands, only looking away when the waitress delivered Arthur's tea.

"The girl's shy," Alfred offered. Arthur hummed a question. "She won't meet anyone's eyes. Not even her boyfriend's. He's really nice. Keeps offering her cherries from his pancakes." He looked back at Arthur and grinned. "They're a really cute couple."

Arthur sighed and folded his paper, finishing his second cup of tea. "This is going to take a while."

"I got it right, right?"

"You're just as oblivious as her boyfriend."

Alfred wasn't sure what to make of the statement. "Huh?"

Arthur pulled a few dollar bills from his pocket and set them down on the table. "She's angry at him. Furious, even. He obviously did something she didn't like, but he doesn't know what. Hence, him giving her the cherries, and her ignoring them. Now let's go. We have a lot of driving to do. You're going to have to learn how to recognize those thoughts and features before I let you loose with a prostitute."

Alfred hoped he wasn't turning red when he stood, collected his jacket, and followed Arthur out to the car.


	15. Chapter 15

"I didn't know they worked in the middle of the day," Alfred grumbled as he popped open his soda. Arthur leaned back in his seat and rolled his water bottle between his hands, itching for a cigarette.

"Just watch them. I don't need to hear any extra commentary, and _don't you dare touch those binoculars_."

Alfred flinched and yanked his hand away from the binoculars, resting it on his knee. He wished he were in the driver's seat instead of Arthur, so that he would at least have the steering wheel to play with. Then again, he was sure that Arthur would hit him for becoming distracted. He noticed Arthur's stare and quickly looked back out the window, squinting in an attempt to see farther.

"How much longer are we going to be out here?" Alfred asked while he took a drink of his soda, his eyes following one woman in a very revealing top and a skirt that barely touched her thighs. "I mean, we've been running around all day, and-"

"You were watching regular people then," Arthur told him. "Now you're watching prostitutes. There are a few differences, and you need to be able to pick those out."

"She doesn't want to be there," Alfred mumbled, and he pointed to the woman he watched when Arthur looked over. "She's kinda standoffish."

"That's just her personality." Arthur unscrewed the top of his drink and raised it to his lips. When he pulled it away, he wiped the moisture away from his lips with the back of his hand. "You're getting a bit better at this, but you're not really getting it."

"I don't want to get it..."

Arthur sighed and turned the key in the ignition. Alfred scrambled to pull on his seat belt before they were on the road, and Arthur made his way back towards the center of the city.

"You're a journalist," Arthur said, and Alfred nodded. "Then it's your job to relay the news. And when you relay the news, you have to be unbiased. No exceptions. So, in order to be unbiased, you need to understand how and what people are thinking, on both ends of the spectrum. Correct?"

Alfred was rather surprised by the sudden comparison, and he chewed on his lip. "But they're differen-"

"Prostitutes and soldiers are not all that different, contrary to popular belief," Arthur growled. "Yes, soldiers may have some different reactions, but we're looking at basic human emotion, something everyone has. Prostitutes and soldiers both do things they don't want to. Some enjoy it, some would rather not be a part of it. If a prostitute looks away when a man kisses her, she doesn't want to deal with him, or it's a part of her personality. If her eyes are averted at all times, it's her personality. If she averts her attention for as long as she can, and then briefly looks up at her buyer, it's likely hesitation, or her not wanting to be there. Aren't soldiers the same? They look away from the scene, they don't have to accept it. They can try to forget it and move on. They try to look away from the scene as long as possible and glance back, then maybe they're curious as to what it looks like. Or, maybe, they can't force themselves to look away from something they did, something they can never take back."

Arthur took a deep breath and looked over, but Alfred didn't look back at him. Alfred watched out the window, trying to focus on anything but Arthur.

"What you're doing now is no different," Arthur muttered. "You're trying not to accept the fact that this is happening. You're trying to figure out what's wrong with me, and keep trying to look at me with the side mirror. But you refuse to physically turn to face me." Arthur watched as Alfred set his jaw, and he looked forward. He lowered his voice. "You need to accept that this is happening. You pulled me into this. We're stuck here. At least, I am. I don't have anything waiting for me back there."

"You have a job," Alfred offered.

"_You_ have a job," Arthur said. "Once they find out what I've been doing, I'm done. I'm a few thousand miles out of my jurisdiction, that's not something that can be taken lightly, no matter how much I may help people. Roderich's let enough pass, and I'm lucky to have had my job for as long as I have. But this... This is unforgivable."

"That's not fair."

"You know exactly how unfair the world is, so don't give me that," Arthur chuckled. "Just make all of this worth it, Alfred. I'd like to know I was fired for a good reason."

"Where're we going?" Alfred asked, desperate to change the subject.

"Motel. Might as well get something to eat. I'll take you back out tonight."

"To get the pro-"

"To watch them. The ones we're looking for will only come out at night, and they'll be watched. Someone has to make sure they don't run away." Arthur motioned to the map on the dash. "Whoever you get, you're taking her to another motel south of Chicago. And we're getting her tomorrow. Not tonight. We're just checking things out tonight."

"But if we see-"

"No grabbing." Arthur took a deep breath. "We can't risk it. We grab someone tonight, we blow everything."

Alfred looked out the window and swallowed.

* * *

><p>Alfred hadn't thought that watching prostitutes do "business" would be so difficult. He was in a cramped black sedan that Arthur had found somewhere for a few hundred dollars, a car that probably wouldn't end the week with a working motor. He wondered at how Arthur had found it, but considering he and Eduard had been communicating a lot, it didn't surprise him that much. Arthur had already been through why they were keeping the convertible at their motel, and why they had booked another room elsewhere where they would keep the "crap-box," as Alfred fondly (<em>or not<em>) called it.

"She's hesitating," Arthur muttered, and Alfred nodded dumbly. "That's the kind of behavior we want to find, but she's not the right one. She's playing with him. We need someone that _forces_ herself to deal with him." Arthur's eyes flicked over a woman in cut-off jeans, and he pointed. "She's one."

Alfred had to wait a moment before he caught on, then his heart started to pound in his chest. Arthur had been right. People really were alike when they didn't want to do something, but were forced into it. He may not recognize most emotions and inconsistencies in someone's behavior, but the unwillingness of the "prostitute" was so painfully obvious that he was ready to jump out of the car and take her for himself.

However, Alfred's hand was stopped when Arthur held onto his wrist.

"Don't go after her," Arthur muttered. Alfred watched him with wide eyes, and he could finally see that bit of humanity inside him. Arthur wasn't even looking. He was leaning against the door, his free arm propped up on the window and his hand covering his eyes. "We can't go after them. We have to wait."

"I don't-"

"I _know_, Alfred. I know." Arthur paused, and his hand left Alfred's wrist and moved to the key. "You know what you're looking for?" Alfred nodded. "We have things to do."

It took forty minutes to get back to their real motel room, where they had no intention of taking the prostitute. Alfred dropped down onto his bed and turned on the television while Arthur disappeared into the bathroom. He tried to ignore the noises being made, and then Arthur was standing outside the bathroom door and watching him pointedly.

"Get in here."

Alfred stared at him. "Huh?"

"Get in here. We have things to do."

"That's a-"

"I know it's a bathroom, now get the fuck in here."

Alfred frowned and stood, dropping the remote on the bed and walking hesitantly towards the bathroom. When he neared Arthur, the Brit grabbed him and pulled him in, kicking the door shut behind him.

"Arthur, what the f-"

"Bend over," Arthur snapped, and he lowered Alfred's head into the bathtub. Alfred flailed when he felt something cold on the top of his head, and something brown dripped into the tub.

"Is that-"

"You'll be recognized," Arthur told him, and Alfred paused in his struggles as Arthur's hands (now gloved) brushed through his hair. Alfred wrinkled his nose at the smell, a bitter-sweet almost "coppery" smell. He pulled one hand away from the edge of the tub and reached for his hair, but Arthur pushed his hand down and pressed the skin back against the tub, careful not to touch Alfred's skin. "That means you'll be a brunette for a while. Couple weeks, at least."

"So you had to jump me?" Alfred snapped.

"I was bored. Needed to do something exciting. Now shut your eyes." Arthur pulled Alfred's glasses off and set them on the toilet, then returned to the American's hair.

"Couldn't I have done this my-" Alfred choked when some of the dye found its way into his mouth, and Arthur groaned when he started to flail.

"Will you stop being such a brat? _I'm _doing this because I've done it before. You would botch it up and everyone would know it was fake."

"Don't tell me you even have grey hair, old man," Alfred grumbled, and Arthur hit him in the back of his head.

"Shut up or I'll dye it pink."

Alfred grimaced and let Arthur continue, blinking when Arthur started dumping cups of water on his head.

"Tomorrow, you drive the car a few places. You go to the motel room, pretend to set things up. You're going to be nervous. You're going to act like you're a virgin when you meet her. You're going to stutter, and she'll probably feel more comfortable. After all, you won't have any expectations." Arthur paused. "Of course, you're so nervous about the whole "prostitute" thing that you probably won't need to act." Arthur ignored the snort from the man beneath him, then he pulled his hands away and shoved a towel at him. "Don't cover everything in dye. You have to let it sit for thirty minutes, then you can take a shower."

Arthur stood and peeled the gloves from his hands, dropping them into the waste basket by the sink. "You have my number in your phone. I recommend you don't call me tomorrow. I'll be waiting in the motel room, lights off, when you get there."

"Won't she be scared when she sees you?" Alfred asked. He had the towel over his shoulders, and he followed Arthur out into the main room.

"Not when she sees what I have for her."

Arthur wouldn't explain anything further. He simply pulled a sandwich from the small fridge and sat back on his bed to eat and watch the news.

Things were going to begin.


	16. Chapter 16

Alfred barely saw Arthur the next day. He woke to the sound of the shower, and lay in bed staring at the ceiling. He was supposed to wander through the city, go to stores and fast food joints. Then he was supposed to pick someone up.

Alfred sat up in bed and climbed out, tossing the sheets aside and stumbling towards the bathroom. The door was open, and Arthur was shaving within.

"I won't be talking to you today," Arthur said as he drew the razor down his jaw. "You have to do this alone. You can't call me, I can't call you. You pick her up, maybe some foreplay in the car. Don't initiate anything. Let her lead. Drive her to the motel, short conversation in the car, then lead her into the room. I'll be waiting. We'll go from there."

"What if she panics when she sees you?"

"I'll deal with it," Arthur said. He dropped the razor in the trash and wet a towel, then wiped his face with it. "Take a shower and get going. We have work to do."

Alfred climbed into the shower once Arthur was out, and when he finished, Arthur was gone. He looked around the empty motel room for a moment, then grabbed the denim jacket that he had found at a thrift store and yanked it on.

He went to McDonald's. He tried to enjoy the egg sandwich that he had always ordered at the restaurants, but it tasted like cardboard in his mouth. All he could think about was a woman, sitting in the front seat of that shitty car outside, waiting for the arrival at an unfamiliar motel room.

He couldn't finish his coffee. He took it to the car with him and shoved it into the cup holder on the dash, putting his keys in the ignition and starting it. He didn't really know where to go. He drove to the other motel room and wandered around inside. He drove to a drug store and grabbed a soda and a bag of chips. He looked through the magazines. He wandered through the aisles, and nervously grabbed a box of condoms. Arthur had told him to grab a box in case someone was suspicious, to somehow throw them off track. Alfred wondered if he had really just wanted to humiliate him, because it was pretty awkward scanning the many sizes and types to try and find something that seemed reasonable. Admittedly, it had been years since he had had sex (not including Arthur). Everything seemed so foreign now, and uncomfortable considering who he was going to meet. Arthur must've known it would be this difficult. _That bastard._

Alfred left the store with a plastic bag full of snacks and things he really didn't want to think about. He drove back to the motel and looked around, then sat back on one of the beds and munched on the chips. He blew an hour watching television, then found his way back to the McDonald's for lunch. He wandered around in a department store, took a walk down a few of the streets, wandered into an IHOP for dinner, and then found himself sitting in the parking lot of a Walmart, glaring at the steering wheel and preparing himself. He left after what seemed like an hour, and he found his way to the north-western part of Chicago.

He didn't park close to the women. He kept his distance and watched, eyes moving from one woman to another.

One talked to a man he assumed was some sort of pimp.

Another was disappearing down an alley, with a man in tow.

Still more were climbing into cars, and he averted his gaze when he saw their heads lower below the dash.

He was chewing on his index finger, trying to remember what Arthur had emphasized the night before. If he saw one, he would know it. If they didn't want to do it, they wouldn't be resistant. They would let themselves be pulled along, fearful of the eyes watching them.

Alfred slowly moved the car forward, pressing his finger on the button beside him and lowering the passenger window. A woman watched him and smiled, her vibrant red hair shining in the dull lights of the street lamps. She approached his door, but he swallowed and shook his head.

"The, uh... The black hair," he stuttered, the action not faked like Arthur had told him to. The woman shrugged and took a step back, and another woman took her place. Her eyes were wide, her skin pale. Her dark hair looked stringy, and he could imagine what the stress and terror had done to her body. He nodded, quick jerky movements, and she opened the door and slid into the seat beside him.

"What d'you want?" she asked him, her voice low and raspy. He pulled out onto the street, and didn't miss the way her fingers tightened on the armrest between them.

"I dunno," he said, and it was true. He had no idea what they were going to do with her. Sure, they'd ask some questions, but where did they begin? What kind of answers did they expect to get out of her?

"Oh. Well, a lot o' people say that," she mumbled, and he pursed his lips. She was definitely foreign. Her skin was darker, and her accent was pronounced. English was probably a second language, but it was hard to tell.

"I just... I got a place, and I wanted..."

"I understand." She smiled, a smile so painfully forced that Alfred wanted to stop right there and spill everything.

Instead, he kept driving. He passed through the dark streets, turned onto the busy highway, and into the parking lot of the dilapidated motel. The woman had prepared herself mentally, and she followed Alfred up the stairs to the door of his room in silence. He shoved his key in the lock and pushed the door open, then took a step back and let her inside. He shut the door behind them and clicked on the light.

"You ready?" the woman asked him, and he finally had a chance to see her in the light. She was no more than a girl. She was obviously younger than him, and she looked as though she was only fed enough to be attractive, not healthy. There were bags under her eyes, and he reached out slowly to touch her shoulder. She watched him suspiciously, and he imagined that he could hear her heart beating rapidly in her chest.

Then the bathroom door opened.

The girl jumped and took a step back, staring wide-eyed as Arthur stepped out of the bathroom with a duffel bag. He tossed it down on the bed, and before the girl could speak, and protest the addition of another stranger, Arthur held up a golden badge.

"You know what I am," he told her, and her mouth dropped open. "Don't say anything. Change into something in this bag. Wear a hat. There're some pairs of sneakers in there, get out of those heels. We have to go."

The girl said nothing. If she thought it was a game, she wasn't arguing. She grabbed the bag and scurried into the bathroom, clicking the door shut behind her. Arthur tossed another duffel from the floor next to the bed at Alfred, and the American gaped at him.

"What're-"

"They followed you here. I knew they would. They don't want to lose their merchandise. Did you leave anything in the car?"

"You told me never leave anything in the-"

"Did you?"

"No."

"Good." Arthur looked back when the door opened, and the girl stepped out slowly. He looked in past her and took the spare clothes from her hands, then shoved them into the duffel that she had left on the floor. "Back door. We're climbing down the rail and taking off."

The girl and Alfred were pushed onto the tiny balcony in the back, and Arthur motioned. "Al, can you climb down and-" He stopped when Alfred hopped over the side and shimmied down, catching the two duffels that Arthur tossed down after him. "After you," he said when he turned to the girl, and she stared at him with wide eyes.

Then she shook her head.

"No. I-n-no! Bad, very bad. There's danger, and-"

"Would you rather return to the men selling you, or take a chance on us?" Arthur asked her. She opened and closed her mouth. "We know all about it, but we have to get out of here to do something. Now take my hand, and let Alfred catch you."

She didn't hesitate again. She slowly raised a leg and slid around the railing, her fingers tight around the cold metal. Arthur grabbed her wrists and she moved her legs, pushing slightly against the wall and trying to "walk" down the wall.

"Drop her," Alfred hissed, and the girl's eyes widened. She looked up at Arthur, and he nodded his head.

"He'll get you. It's only a few feet." He let her go. She grasped in the air for his hands, but her fingers barely touched him, and then Alfred had her in his arms. Arthur climbed over the railing and slid down, barely feeling when Alfred reached up and grabbed his waist to support him during his descent.

"The car's this way," Arthur hissed, and he ducked into the darkness, grabbing one of the duffels while Alfred grabbed the other. The girl was between them while they ran, trying to keep up with them. They pushed through bushes and trees, eventually passing through a grove and coming out in a parking lot almost two miles away.

Alfred stared at the convertible. The once black car had white racing stripes, and new hood ornaments. It wasn't a major change, but it was different enough to be weird, and he was surprised that Arthur had managed to get it painted in a single day.

Especially when it was obvious that Arthur had done a lot more than paint.

"I checked out of the other motel, and booked one in Franklin Park. Everything's in back, the new place is waiting."

The girl was pushed into the back seat, and Arthur covered her up to her neck in blankets. "It's late out, pretend to sleep," he told her. Alfred sank down in the passenger's seat and waited for Arthur to tell him what to do, but Arthur was too frazzled to guide him. "We have to get the hell out of here before someone comes looking. If you begin to feel nervous, pull the blanket over your head and hide." The girl nodded and sat back, her eyes wide and scared, and Arthur climbed in behind the wheel. "Now we're off."

Arthur pulled out of the parking lot, and Alfred had time to be amazed at his driving abilities. Arthur didn't break the speed laws once. He was in control, collected, and calm. Alfred would have gunned the engine at the first sign of danger or distress; he knew that much about himself. The ride passed in silence, and after what seemed like hours, they were pulling into another parking lot, driving around to the back of the motel and parking the car by a yellowed door with a large "37" pinned in the center.

"Get her inside. She can't come back out, neither can you." Arthur left them to run inside, and he grabbed the duffel bags that he had retrieved from the other motel. Alfred and the girl ran inside, and Arthur soon followed with the extra bags.

He had already moved everything from the original motel room to this one. Alfred looked around at the items that had been in their room that very morning, and then his eyes passed over the girl. She was standing in a corner, her back straight and her shoulders squared. She was watching them, caught between fear and relief, and then her eyes found Arthur.

"We're both looking for someone," Arthur said. "A part of this trafficking ring. Two people: a woman and a child." He looked her over briefly. "What's your natural hair color?"

She stared at him blankly, then took a step forward. "I... It's black."

"They didn't dye your hair?" Arthur looked back at her, and she shook her head. "You're going to be blond for a while, then. Come with me; we have to cover our bases, make sure you can't be recognized."

The girl seemed to accept the fact that the new people before her were there to stay, and far better than what she had been with before. She followed Arthur into the bathroom, and Alfred finally had a chance to look through the bag of things that Arthur had bought a few nights before. Boxes of different hair dyes, eye liner, various make-up materials... He wondered how Arthur had been able to act so confident walking in and buying them. Then he remembered the tight leather, and decided not to think about it again.

Alfred looked into the bathroom, where Arthur knelt beside the girl at the bathtub and brushed the dye over her hair. There was a heavy ammonia smell, and he almost gagged when he poked at a small cup of a clear gel. He picked up the box beside it. Hair bleach.

Alfred set the box back down on the bathroom counter and watched Arthur. He was being gentle, a lot like that morning after the rave. He was talking to her, his voice low and accented. He was telling her about the boy, and Katherine Walker, and how she would be safe with them, and about how she would be able to help them stop the traffickers, and save those other girls.

She cried. It had only been forty minutes, maybe a bit more, since Alfred had picked her up. She spoke in a foreign language, and Alfred imagined her praying, thanking the gods, cursing her captors. Arthur just threaded his fingers through her hair as he applied the bleach, muttering soft words into her ears, and assuring her that they were there to help.

Alfred could feel something in his chest, and he took a deep breath.

His mother had never wanted him in harm's way. In a round-about way, he had defied her by becoming a journalist in the treacherous war zone in the middle east. He was defying her again, getting himself involved with traffickers that had no regard for human life or suffering.

But he didn't care. Once again, his mind was going a mile a minute, racing as he tried to make sense of his thoughts and emotions. His hand strayed towards his stomach, and the scar there that would always remind him of Rob, and that hot day in the middle of a fire fight.

He had to get this story out. He had to save them.

He had to be the hero from his childhood.


	17. Chapter 17

Arthur washed the make-up from her face and used one of the motel towels to dry her hair. She pushed him away and took the towel to finish drying her hair herself. She stood silently and stared into the mirror over the dingy sink, and after a moment she slowly pulled the towel from her head.

Her once-black locks of hair were a reddish-blond, and she raised her fingers to a small scar on her cheek that had been hidden with make-up. Arthur herded Alfred away from the bathroom and clicked the door shut behind him, leaving the girl alone. Alfred looked at him in confusion, and Arthur shrugged.

"She needs a moment."

"Right." Alfred nodded his head hesitantly. "So... What the hell was that back there?"

"She can't go around looking as she did," Arthur muttered. "They'd find her imm-"

"I mean the whole Bond-thing," Alfred interrupted. He ignored Arthur's glare. "When they hell did you turn into a cool cop? I mean, the whole balcony thing, the when did you-"

"I've been working on this all day,"Arthur said as he dropped onto the couch by the tiny television. He stared at the two beds, and he pointed at a notebook on the desk by the door. "And yesterday. They don't want to lose their merchandise, and they don't want their women telling everything. Of course they'd follow them. They're probably still waiting for you to finish up. We had to get her out of there before they got suspicious."

"So what d'we do now?"

"We wait for her to come out, then we get answers. Her name, where she's from, if she knows the others. We have to find out where they're being kept."

"What do we do when that happens?"

"We'll deal with it when we get that far."

Alfred dropped down onto the couch next to Arthur and groaned. "What do _I_ have to do?"

"We'll find out soon enough."

The two fell silent, and Arthur kept his eyes on the bathroom door. It was another ten minutes before they heard a sound, and then the bathroom door creaked open slowly. The girl stepped out slowly, her fingers tugging at the hair that rested on her shoulder. She looked from Arthur to Alfred, then back to Arthur. Arthur nodded towards the bed, and she swallowed and walked over. She sat stiffly, her back straight and her hands coming together.

"We want to help," Arthur told her, and she nodded hesitantly. "You're part of the trafficking." She nodded again. "We need to know everything. How to find them, where they are, maybe even how many. We need to know about the people holding you. And we need to know fast, before they catch on that you're missing."

"What if they already know?" she whispered, and he smiled.

"If they burst into that motel, they're going to think that Alfred killed you." She started at that, and Alfred gaped at him. "Fake blood. Smeared all over the bathroom walls, under the sheets of the bed, etcetera. It will save some time, but not a lot. Now, what's your name?"

The answer was immediate. "Angel."

"Your _real_ name?"

Hesitation. She blinked at him, swallowed. "Sara."

"Where are you from?"

"I just moved here, to the US. Why-"

"The US usually receives or temporarily houses girls," Alfred muttered, staring at her. "Why would they risk taking US citizens?"

"It's probably a bigger route than most. They're confident." Arthur kept his eyes on Sara, and he nodded to her. "Do you know where everyone is being held?" She shook her head. "What about inside? How do you get to the streets and back?"

"I think it's underground," she mumbled. "It's always dark. Cold." She paused. "Someone's always crying."

"And when they take you to the streets?"

"A car. Or something. Like a van. The windows are all covered."

"How long does it take you to get to where they drop you off?"

"Depends."

"How long did it take you tonight?"

"I don't know! An hour, maybe two-"

"He drove slow, probably the speed limit, right?"

Sara blinked at him, her eyes wide and confused. "Uh... I guess so?"

"Probably underground in some warehouse," Arthur muttered, and he grabbed his laptop and plopped it in Alfred's lap. "Have Eduard look up warehouses with nothing in them, whether the place went under or was sold and not immediately moved into." Arthur turned back to the girl. "Now, do you know how many people were there? Any idea?"

She shook her head and Arthur stood. "How about this: were there any Russians inside?"

"Not guys. But a couple girls..." She shivered. "They're scary. One's always trying to fight, an' the other's..."

"What about the men?" Alfred cut in before Arthur could speak. "They weren't Russian, so were they American?"

She stared at him and shut her eyes, chewing on her lip. "Erm... Asian? I don't know. It's always dark, and they don't talk much."

Arthur dug through the pockets of a bag next to the door, and he pulled out an old cell phone. Alfred stopped typing to watch. Arthur hadn't wanted any contact with other individuals, so calling someone up was a bit _odd_, to say in the least.

Arthur didn't appear to notice that his phone conversation wasn't about to be a private call. Of course, he didn't seem to care about it, either. He dialled quickly, his fingers pressing down the worn buttons, and then he raised the phone to his ear and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

"Hey, this is the _awesome_ me, what the hell do you wan-"

"Gilbert, stop talking and listen to me."

There was a surprised snort on the other end, and Arthur leaned against the television, draping his arm over the top and drumming his fingers on the hard plastic.

"You owe me," Arthur said, "and I'm collecting."

Gilbert hummed on the other end of the line, and Arthur could hear the chirping of his god damned bird. "What if I don't feel like giving out? And aren't you supposed to be on vacation? I always told you that you would come back crying sooner or later-"

Arthur narrowed his eyes at the door, wishing there was a way for him to reach through the phone and strangle the albino. "Do I need to tell your brother about your _little black book_? And I have a case full of harassment reports that are missing your name, but I can easily supply that. How many times have I gotten you off the hook for your shite and-"

"Fine, fine. What d'you need?" Gilbert didn't sound at all harassed. If anything he sounded amused by Arthur's agitation. "And just so you know, this favor clears the record, and makes us even, right?"

"Right. Now, I need your grandfather's phone number."

There was a long silence. Arthur could almost hear Gilbert's confusion on the other end, and the man hummed over the line. "He never gave it to you?"

"I lost it."

"Right. That was smart."

"Just belt up and get me the bleeding number!"

Arthur could hear rummaging on the other end, and he could picture Gilbert tossing aside piles of clothes and video games. There was the infuriated chirping of a bird, and Gilbert's "it's just a controller, Gilbird!" when there was a thud. Then Gilbert returned to the phone, and Arthur could almost hear the smirk on his face.

"I have conditions," Gilbert said. When Arthur said nothing, he took it as Arthur being willing to listen. "If I give you this number, I want in. And don't tell me nothing's happening, I know that's shit."

"Fine. Give me the number."

Gilbert read off the phone number, and Arthur jotted it down on a piece of paper. "Get your ass to Chicago, don't tell your brother, and keep your phone on." Arthur hung up and turned around, shoving the phone into his pocket and looking over at Alfred.

"Are you a corrupt co-"

"_Don't _finish that sentence," Arthur said. "You have anything on the warehouses yet?"

"No."

"Hurry the fuck up. We don't have a lot of time. He should be here in eight hours, at the most. And I need information so that I can do something. Now hurry u-"

"Here," Alfred said when an e-mail popped up, and he handed the computer over. "Nineteen warehouses in Chicago. Recently sold, or owned for a long time, none of them have any business. Two warehouses outside Chicago with the same conditions."

Arthur frowned. "If they're trying to do it like the warehouse the rave was at, then they'll be outside Chicago. Those are our best bets."

"Let's go th-"

"No. We're two men and a girl. She's not going back, and we're not going alone."

"Gilbert's really gonna make a difference?" Alfred made a face at that, and Arthur scowled at him. "I don't think _one more guy_ is gonna make a big difference. And besides, your arm is still-"

"It was a flesh wound, doesn't even hurt."

"We don't have any-"

"I have five."

"-and—wait, where'd you get that many guns?" Alfred stopped when Arthur's expression darkened, clearly challenging him to ask the question again. "Well, we don't know how many guys there are, and I'm all for running in there, but I thought you were smarter than that!"

"Hence the phone call," Arthur said. He clicked through the e-mail that Eduard had sent, and retrieved the phone from his pocket. He glanced at the number, ignoring the confused expression that Alfred had aimed at him, and dialled.

It took only two rings for the man on the other end to pick up with a curt, "Beilschmidt," and Arthur took a breath.

"Charles."

There was silence on the other end of the line. He wondered what the man was doing. He was likely contemplating hanging up.

"I need your help for something," Arthur continued, and the man finally spoke.

"If I remember correctly, you tore up the piece of paper with my number on it, while saying that you would need to call me in the "bleeding future" as you were able to take care of yourself, and did _not_ need someone constantly looking over your shoulder. What on _earth_ do you need help with now?"

Arthur had to think over those words. Charles sounded completely serious, and had always been unable to make jokes. He was beginning to think that he wouldn't be receiving any help.

"Human trafficking. You deal with that, right? I found a few warehouses that likely have some slaves and-"

"Where the hell areyou?"

"Chicago."

There was typing, and Arthur continued before Charles could blow him off. "I'm in a motel room with a journalist and one of the girls. By now they must know we've taken her, and they're not sky about using guns. I was shot back home, and I'm probably on a hit list. We don't have time to wait, we need to do something, and fast. We can't go to the locals, and you know exactly how politicians are. I don't know how many there are, but there are enough so that two people can follow their girl wherever she goes."

"You remember our deal?" Charles asked before he could say any more. "You realize what this all means?"

Arthur sighed and nodded to the air. "I do, sir."

There were thuds on the other end. "We can be there in five hours. Keep your phone on."

Then he hung up. Arthur slowly lowered the phone and stared at it, then set it down on the top of the television. Alfred was watching him carefully, and Sara stared down at her hands.

"What's going on?" Alfred asked, his eyes narrowed as he tried to figure out what Arthur was thinking. "Something happening? You look like-"

"Both of you get to sleep," Arthur said. "I'll sleep on the couch."

"But-"

"Just sleep, Alfred. Let me deal with the other things."


	18. Chapter 18

Two chapters for you guys since I kinda forgot this week. Also, I'll upload the final chapter tomorrow.

* * *

><p>Arthur left in the middle of the night, while Alfred and Sara were still sleeping silently in their beds. He made his way to the airport, wondering if he should have left a note for them to find if they woke. Gilbert had sent him a text message, and had told him that his plane would land at two. He needed to pick him up and make sure he reached their destination safely, and without alerting anyone to his presence.<p>

The airport was surprisingly empty considering the fact that Chicago was one of the "hubs" where Americans had to pass through when they travelled across the country. Considering the size of the city, he had expected there to be a lot more people. The fact that it was almost empty alarmed him.

He waited impatiently by the small café in the shop, sipping on a disposable cup of tea and glowering at the arrival board. Gilbert's plane was twenty-two minutes late. He wished he could climb up into the sky and box the pilots' ears to make them hurry up, but that would never happen.

"_Arrival, Gate Nineteen."_

Arthur tossed his cup in the trash and walked down the long hall of the airport, towards baggage claim and where he was sure Gilbert would be striding out, smirk on his face and his red eyes narrowed devilishly. The man was predictable that way.

It wasn't three minutes before Gilbert was walking out with that smirk, and Arthur shepherded him to the car. Gilbert tossing his bag in the backseat and climbed in, buckling and resting his hands behind his head while Arthur pulled out. Arthur wasted no time in weaving through the many streets of Chicago, making it a point to double back on various roads in case someone was following.

"This is a nice car. Jones's?" Arthur nodded, and Gilbert looked around the interior. "You must be in deep, to want Gramp's help," Gilbert pressed as they drove. "What's the plan?"

"Human trafficking. We have two warehouses that may be where everything's happening, but we can't be sure."

"You always know how to have a good time," Gilbert chuckled. "Just like old times."

Arthur grumbled at that and checked the rearview. No one had appeared to be following them, and so he turned onto the road that led out of Chicago and to the tiny motel that they were staying at.

"Be nice to the girl," he said, and Gilbert nodded.

"She's one of them?"

"Yes."

"Cool. Do I get a gun?"

"Sure."

"Even better!"

Gilbert began to look around at where they were headed, likely so that he could remember where they were going. He frowned when he saw the motel that they were staying at, and said something about how he had to "awesome the place up," but he became silent when they entered the room. Of course, that silence only lasted a minute.

"That must be Jones," Gilbert grinned when he entered the room. Alfred was sitting in the chair next to the table with the computer on it, and he tilted his head when the two men entered the room. "Road trip must be going good."

"And now it's going to get awesome, I know," Arthur said dryly. He grabbed the laptop from the table and set it on top of the television, then opened it and clicked through some windows. "I have satellite images of the warehouses. You look and tell me where you think it is."

Gilbert shrugged and shoved Arthur to the side so that he could have a better look. He hummed as he turned the images and leaned closer to the screen, and Arthur noticed that Alfred was watching him with squinted eyes. When Alfred saw Arthur watching, he spoke up.

"Who's he?"

"Ex-SWAT."

Alfred blinked. "Ex?"

"Long story," Arthur said, and Gilbert looked back.

"The northern warehouse. That's where you'll find 'em."

Alfred stood and wandered over to look at the screen. "How do you know that?"

"See the trees?" Gilbert followed the perimeter with his finger, pointing out the circle of trees. "Perfect coverage from the streets. Then there's enough distance that you can see pretty much anything. The other place doesn't have that. And the road looks used."

"You can tell?"

Gilbert didn't answer. He looked back at Arthur and waited.

"We need sleep," was all Arthur said, and he dropped down onto the couch. "Grab a chair, Gilbert."

* * *

><p>"You fired a gun before?"<p>

"I used to hunt with my dad." Alfred pulled the clip out of the pistol in his hand, and he checked it while Gilbert handed him another. They had left Sara in the motel room with a refrigerator packed with food and drinks, and Arthur had taken the keys. He drove now, passing through the streets of Illinois and occasionally checking the map in the seat next to him. Gilbert and Alfred were in the back, looking at the weapons and checking the clips. Gilbert was explaining the mechanics of the weapons, occasionally glancing out the tinted windows.

"Where're we meeting him?" Gilbert asked, but Arthur didn't answer him. He just grunted something and continued driving. "Really wish you grew outta that attitude."

"I wish you got rid of that self-obsessed attitude," Arthur shot back. Gilbert shoved the guns before him into holsters and hummed. Then Gilbert looked playfully towards Alfred.

"So you're a reporter? You must know how to dig up dirt on people." Gilbert waited for Alfred's nod, and he grinned. "This guy's a real piece of work. I bet you saw him at a party somewhere, right? Or you must've heard about it. Captain Kirk's a real piece of work-"

"Gilbert," Arthur warned, but Gilbert ignored him.

"-he lived with us for a long time, y'know?" Gilbert cocked his head to the side. "Little runt. Couldn't even-"

The car jerked to the side and Gilbert cursed as his head slammed against the window. "God damn it, Artie! Th' fuck is wrong with you?"

"Dog in the street," Arthur said dryly. Gilbert grumbled under his breath and rubbed his head, then looked back out the window.

"'Kay, kid, we're steering clear of the action, understand? We're searching for their offices, or wherever they'd keep files. When we get to the warehouses, they're going to be putting the girls back, just like Sara said. The night's over, the girls are going to rest, and the guys are going to be doing headcount, or whatever the hell guys like them do. This is when they're at their weakest, and this is when we hit."

Alfred struggled to pull off his belt so that he could attach the holsters, and he stumbled slightly when the car slowed and turned into the parking lot of a fast food joint. Arthur parked and pulled the keys from the car, then got out and walked towards a dark blue SUV. Alfred reached for the door handle, but Gilbert grabbed his wrist to stop him.

"We stay here and wait for him to get back with plans."

Alfred hesitated before settling back in his seat, and he watched as Arthur leaned against the front door of the SUV and talked to a man inside. "So he lived with you?"

"Gramps picked him up off the street when he was sixteen. Guess he was a runaway or something. Brought him into the house and said we were supposed to play brothers." Gilbert snorted. "Gramps really latched onto him. Decided to push him into law enforcement like my brother and me." He laughed. "I think he just liked being able to kick the shit out of people without getting in trouble."

"Who is your grandfather?" Alfred wondered, and Gilbert yawned.

"FBI, CIA, I dunno. Something like that." Gilbert looked back out the window, and he frowned. "Arthur's in over his head, y'know. This isn't his jurisdiction. He called in reinforcements for another city. He's stepping on the toes of every cop in Illinois, and he's going to pay for it. I don't know how the hell he's going to keep his job after this."

"He's going to be a hero to all of the women in there," Alfred pointed out. "The country will love it. He's going to be one of the most popular guys around."

"You're more naive than you look," Gilbert chuckled. "I was a hotshot when I was on SWAT. We were an awesome team! We stopped more riots and held up in more stand offs than anyone!" He paused. "Then a civilian was used as a hostage. No one knows whose shot killed him, whether it was us or the attacker. I took the fall, and bye-bye SWAT team."

"You think the same'll happen to Arthur?" Alfred leaned forward slightly, and Gilbert shrugged.

"Probably. Roderich's a protective bastard, but if someone gets pissed, then the department gets in trouble. It might be safer to quietly drop Arthur and not risk it."

"Elizabeta's husband can't be that bad, if he likes him."

"That depends on how bad everything goes." Gilbert looked ready to say more, but then Arthur moved. The Brit climbed into the car and started the engine, then pulled out of the parking lot.

The blue SUV didn't follow.

"They're taking the south. The west and the east are covered, and we're going to meet someone to the north. Like Gilbert said, we're going in and we're searching for files. We do _not_ confront anybody. Try not to make a sound." Arthur sped up, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. Alfred finally noticed the stack of _things_ in the passenger seat, and he leaned forward to look. "Charles gave us vests."

Alfred's heart thumped painfully in his chest. The full weight of what was happening was finally setting in, and he could only think of that day back in the middle east, when he was on patrol with the soldiers. He clenched and unclenched his fingers, and he set his jaw. He would finally get his chance for redemption.

* * *

><p>Arthur adjusted the mic on his neck, cursing under his breath as he tried to wrangle it into a more comfortable position. Gilbert looked almost pleased by his part in the infiltration, and he loaded the rifle in his hands before slinging it over his back.<p>

"How much longer do we have to wait?" Alfred muttered, leaning against a tree and watching the building carefully. There was a stretch of grass and dirt between the building and the trees they were hidden in, an expanse at least thirty meters wide.

"They're breaking into the south end of the building right now," Arthur muttered, checking his ear bud. "Three minutes and we go in."

Alfred looked down the length of the field and his eyes fell on a group of people. The agents that Arthur had called. He followed them as they moved towards the northern door, and then the door opened with a click that echoed throughout the yard.

"Now we go," Arthur told him, and they started to run.


	19. Chapter 19

It was quiet when they entered the building.

Gilbert crept along one side of the hall with Alfred close behind, his eyes narrowed and his fingers gripping his gun tightly. Arthur had separated almost as soon as they had entered the building, and to say that Gilbert was a bit annoyed was a serious understatement. The German was pissed, and would grumble under his breath at how thoughtless the Brit had been.

The two passed abandoned offices and empty halls, and Gilbert had stopped looking back whenever Alfred flinched. There were clicks and the sounds of gunshots from the other side of the building, and though Alfred had been visibly shaken in the beginning, he had become accustomed to the sounds. He still flinched occasionally, but nothing jarring.

Gilbert suddenly stopped, and he held up a hand. Alfred froze in place as Gilbert leaned around the corner of a doorway and scanned the room. Neither moved for a long time, but then Gilbert turned into the room and motioned for Alfred to follow.

Boxes. A lot of boxes.

Alfred looked around the office slowly, and Gilbert slapped his shoulder. "This looks interesting." Gilbert had already popped the top off of a box, and he left Alfred to begin leafing through papers. Alfred watched for a moment, then walked to another box to look through it. He pulled off the cardboard top and began to look through the papers, the letters and lines blurring before his vision as he read. None of it meant anything to him. It was all just-

Alfred stopped. His jaw dropped, and he began to flip through them faster, trying to read as many as possible. "These are trade routes," he said dumbly, and Gilbert hummed from where he stood. "These are all places where they go, where they're bought and sold, and... Holy shit!" Alfred flipped through the papers with an eagerness he had never known before. The mere _idea_ that everything had been collected in such a disorganized fashion and left out in the open made him worry about its credibility, but he decided to worry about it later.

There were shots. Closer than before. _Much_ closer. Both Alfred and Gilbert dropped to the ground and dove under tables, guns drawn as they awaited the inevitable. The shots grew louder, and then there were thuds in the hall. Alfred jerked back when it sounded like bullets were hitting the wall above the table he was under, and Gilbert reached across to clap a hand over his mouth. The shots stopped, doors slammed and then the only sound was a grunt, and breathing.

The sounds stopped and the two men were left in silence. Neither moved, but Gilbert cradled his gun in his hand possessively, obviously ready to fire it if need be. Alfred pushed his hand away carefully and moved forward. He crept towards the doorway and kept his hand on the gun in the holster at his waist. His heart pounded in his chest, and he was sure that Gilbert could hear it. Whatever was on the other side of the door could probably hear it as well. He could barely hear Gilbert's hissed "the fuck're you doing?" past the throbbing in his head, and the bullet holes in the wall made him want to cringe away.

He peeked around the corner quickly, and he almost shouted. Arthur. The man was slumped against the wall, a pool of red gathering around his leg. He was loading a clip into his gun, aiming it towards the end of the hall and grimacing. Alfred let his hand fall from his gun, and he looked back at Gilbert, motioning quickly and pulling away from the door. Gilbert stared at him and frowned, then Alfred looked back out.

Arthur was forcing himself to remain silent. Alfred could see the faint tremors that ran through his body. He was bleeding from one of his legs, and Alfred clenched his fists. He scanned the hall quickly, then moved out into the hall.

Arthur never saw him coming. Alfred was almost shot when he grabbed Arthur around the chest, one hand holding him and the other keeping the gun from going off. Arthur tried to reach back and grab him, but Alfred started muttering under his breath, surprising and silencing the Brit. Then he dragged him back into the room, where Gilbert promptly jumped on him demanding answers.

Alfred couldn't make out any words between the two as they spoke. Each was hissing at the other, and Gilbert was tearing apart the bottom of his jacket to wrap around Arthur's leg. It was a few minutes before Alfred realized that Arthur was talking to him, and he blinked. "What?"

"Your story," Arthur said, wincing when Gilbert tightened one of the strips around his leg. "They have a store room full of drugs and boxes here. Looked like there was a lab next to it." He took a breath, and Gilbert poked him. "God DAMN IT, Gilbert!" Arthur cursed, but Gilbert interrupted before he could continue.

"Who shot you?" he demanded. "What'd they have?"

"The agents took off after them," Arthur told him, grimacing. "Will you hurry the hell up? And what's with the boxes?"

"They're all records," Alfred piped up. "Trading routes, bills of sale, everything!"

"If they're even real," Arthur muttered, but he was pressing the button on his microphone and talking to the others on the line. He was silent for a moment, save for the grunts he was unable to suppress when the wound throbbed painfully, and he listened. "It's done," he said, his voice sounding rather surprised. "They didn't expect it, weren't prepared. Four dead on their side, one on ours."

Alfred was sombered by the fact, and Gilbert pulled Arthur to his feet. "Let's go get 'em."

* * *

><p>"We found your assassin," a man with long blond hair greeted them when he arrived. He cast a glance at Arthur's leg, then looked at how he was leaning against Alfred. He was holding a wallet in his hand, and he motioned to a body slumped in a corner. "He had your picture in his wallet." He paused. "Well, two of them. In uniform and at a club."<p>

Arthur stared at the body in silence, tightening his grip around Alfred's shoulders. "He's from a rave back home. He was serving drinks."

Alfred let Arthur go, leaving the Brit to sit on a small table. The blond (he assumed it was Charles) motioned to him. "There are cages and rooms all over the place," Charles told him as he led him away. "Arthur said this was important to you, about some kid. I doubt you'll find anything but women, but you can come help."

Alfred took one last look at Arthur, but the other waved him away. He turned to follow Charles, jogging to catch up with his quick pace. "You guys were fast," he said when they turned around a corner, and Charles nodded.

"We've done this before, sadly. Rat holes like this aren't common, but they're there. But if what Arthur said was true, and you found those files, then we have a chance to bring down an entire system around the country. We can share data with Interpol and other countries, and we'll reach farther."

Alfred watched curiously, and then they stopped. They were before a large door, and Charles pushed it open carefully.

A hall of doors. Chains. Alfred looked down the dark hallway, with faulty swinging lights and mismatched floor tiles, and he was sure he had stepped into an ancient dungeon. Charles pushed him towards a door and nodded. Alfred twisted the knob, and then he pushed open the door.

She was tiny. _Really_ tiny. And she looked at him with fear in her eyes, trembling in place yet not retreating. He could imagine how long she had been there, for her to learn not to shrink away from whoever opened the door. He didn't extend his arm. He simply stood there, and he watched her. Then Charles was shoving something in his hand, and he looked down.

"You're a consult right now," Charles told him, and Alfred looked at the thing in his hand. It was a small card with the logo of the FBI, and when he turned to ask Charles about it, the man left.

The woman watched him timidly, tilting her head so that she could see the card better. He lifted it, and she swallowed. Then she locked eyes with him.

"Let's go."

* * *

><p>Arthur was gone when they finally left the cages, watching the woman move towards buses and cars that waited for them. Charles kept Alfred close, not wanting to lose him in the crowds, and then he led him to a dark blue SUV.<p>

"Where's Arthur?"

"Gilbert took him to the hospital." Charles climbed into the driver's seat while Alfred pulled the seatbelt in front of him on the passenger's side. "He's in surgery."

"He gonna be okay?"

"He'll be fine. He's always been stubborn about things like this."

Charles started the vehicle and let it idle for a moment as he flipped through a stack of papers that had been left on his dash. "We're contacting the governments of various European and Asian countries. There are also some South American countries that have these centers. If the paperwork is true, then we're breaking down one of the largest working routes." He shoved the papers back up on the dash, and he shifted into gear. "Arthur said you were a journalist." When Alfred nodded, he hummed. "I'll give you the exclusive, considering what you've done. But only after everything calms down."

"Otherwise the other places'll get a warning," Alfred guessed, and Charles nodded.

They sat in silence for the duration of the ride, and Alfred kept glancing over at the man. In the brief time he had known Gilbert, he would never have expected the man beside him to be the albino's grandfather. They were polar opposites. The man beside him was quiet, severe, and strict. It was obvious from how he held himself, and even from how he talked (even if he looked like he'd be a lot of fun, considering the length of his hair).

Arthur had lived with him?

"Gilbert said Arthur lived with you guys," Alfred blurted before he could stop himself. "Is that why he's a cop?"

Charles looked over at him, and his fine brows lowered slightly. "I did a favor for some friends. Nothing more, nothing less."

Alfred would have asked more, but Charles turned up the radio and did a pretty good job of ignoring him. He was forced to sit back and stare out the window as they drove, and after a few minutes he realized that they were returning to the hotel room. He looked at Charles inquisitively, but the man already knew what he was going to ask.

"Arthur said you have a girl in your room. We're picking her up and taking her to the hospital."

"Oh. Right."

* * *

><p>It had been easy to get Sara into the SUV. She had eagerly examined Charles's credentials, and then she had practically run to the vehicle. It hadn't taken much time to reach the hospital, and they passed through the doors as though they were normal, and not involved in a major trafficking bust just hours ago.<p>

Which made Alfred look at Charles in confusion, after they had left the girl with some agents to be checked. "Why didn't it take a long time to, y'know, do stuff? Barely lasted thirty minutes!"

"They were unprepared, and I brought my best." Charles dropped the subject while he stepped onto the elevator and off at the next floor, and he passed a nurse and headed straight to one of the many identical doors in a long hall. Arthur was inside, slumped in a sanitary white bed with Gilbert on the other side, threatening to poke him with his index finger.

"Nice to see you up," Charles said, and he walked to the bed. "When are you leaving?"

"As soon as the nurse takes this damn pin out of my arm," Arthur snapped. Alfred used the time to look around the room. Crutches leaned against a wall, a change of clothes on the set of drawers, a few empty beer bottles hidden under the bed. Alfred ignored the conversation about the IV and watched Gilbert. The man didn't appear at all concerned by how Arthur and Charles were on the brink of some sort of argument, and he popped open another bottle of beer eagerly.

"Poor bastard," Gilbert said. He didn't continue, and after a moment, Alfred realized that he had been talking to him. "From the sounds of things, you have to drive Captain Kirk home." He chuckled. "Have fun.''


	20. Chapter 20

"I've always hated McDonald's," Arthur muttered as he chewed on the burger, staring at the bustling streets outside the fenced-in patio. Alfred was on the other side of him, eating his food as though he had been starved for weeks. Arthur sipped his water, then set it down carefully. "I forgot to ask, but did you find any-"

"-Russian girls?" Alfred guessed, and he shook his head. "Mostly Chinese, and a few Americans. Couple from Mexico, nothing but them."

"And you didn't find that boy, either."

The two fell silent, listening to traffic and the children playing on the swing sets. It had been a couple days since they had left Illinois, and they were taking their time returning. Alfred had called Elizabeta about what had happened, and she had extended his deadlines because of the ongoing investigation. Arthur had put in a quick call to let Roderich know that he was alive, and that was about it.

"Elizabeta said you're somewhat of an idol at the station," Alfred told him when he popped a French fry into his mouth. Arthur shrugged, not really paying attention to where the conversation was going. They had changed the topic at least six times, and he was too tired to keep up with anything. "Bet they're going to give you the key to the city or something!"

"You're the one that started it, they'll likely give it to you, if they give it to anyone at all." Arthur pushed his tray of food away, feeling uncomfortable. His painkillers and the greasy food didn't mix at all, and he had a feeling that he was going to be up late watching talk shows and old reruns once again. Alfred would probably worry about him as he had the past nights, wondering if he should go find a corner store with some aspirin or something to kill the pain and let him sleep.

Arthur always had to tell him that the only thing extra drugs would do was put him in a drug-induced coma, and his face would fall. He'd tell him to go to sleep, relax and let himself go. There was no reason to worry anymore. It wasn't as though they were being hunted. They could afford to take it easy on their trip home.

Arthur packed his food into the paper bag on his tray, and he folded the top over slowly. Alfred saw the movement and reached over to hand him his crutches, taking his bag of food at the same time.

"You can have it," Arthur told him as he pulled himself to his feet and stuck the crutches under his arms. "Not hungry."

Alfred frowned but rose and followed Arthur as he hobbled back to the car. The man was nowhere near as crotchety as he had been before, and travelling with him was almost _pleasant. _Granted, he had taken to insulting Alfred's English at every chance, but Alfred had let it go as simply an old man's way to improve his mood.

"Will you hurry up?" Arthur demanded. "Don't even try to feed me some shite about me going too fast."

Alfred frowned at him and unlocked the door to the car. Arthur let his gaze linger on him for a moment, then he shook his head. "You look like a fairy, with the two-tone hair."

Then Arthur climbed into the passenger's side, and Alfred touched his hair with his hand. "Well, you're the one that dyed it brown! Course my hair's gonna grow out!"

"A shame. Truly."

* * *

><p>The trip had continued in relative silence, neither talking much. Arthur had slept a lot, likely a side effect of the painkillers he had been prescribed. The short time that they had talked, it was about the mysterious Russian, and the young boy that was still missing. Arthur had wondered about his kidnapping case, but he had been met with a rather anticlimactic report that she had been found safe (physically) and flown home to her parents.<p>

It seemed far too good to be true, Arthur noted.

"Want me to help you inside?" Alfred asked when he had shifted his car into park, and he watched as Arthur struggled to balance his bag of clothing while getting his crutches in hand. They were before the Brit's tiny apartment, Arthur insisting he needed no help while Alfred watched rather helplessly. "Then... Wanna grab a bite sometime? I mean, you're probably not going to be working a lot, with your leg and everything."

"I doubt I'll be up for going out much, Alfred," Arthur sighed. "I have work to make up, papers to file, bills to pay. Please don't worry about it, and go home."

Alfred frowned and waited until Arthur had gotten himself inside the apartment before he left. Arthur, in turn, dropped his bags inside and promptly called a taxi. He waited on the front steps of the building for twenty minutes, humming to himself and occasionally checking the fake Rolex on his wrist. The shabby yellow car eventually pulled over onto the curb by the house, and he struggled his way to the car, shoving his crutches in before him and picking through his wallet. "Police station," he said, and the driver nodded before pulling out into the road.

The drive seemed unbearably long. Arthur fidgeted in his seat, thinking of the reaming out he was going to receive for his troubles. He had resigned himself to the fact that he was being fired, and he counted out the cash he was to pay the driver when they finally reached the station. He watched the houses outside fly by, and when they finally reached the station, he dropped the cash in the man's hand and struggled to gather his crutches and get his ass inside the building.

The taxi shot off as soon as Arthur was clear of it, and he grumbled something about manners as he made his way up the ramp and through the front doors of the station. No one paid any attention to him as he moved to the elevator, pressing the button and waiting impatiently for the _-ding-_ that would signal his trip to the floors above. When the chime finally sounded, he entered the elevator and mashed his thumb against the button to his floor, and waited for the inevitable meeting with Roderich

Of course, the meeting came sooner than he thought. He hadn't even stepped off the elevator when Roderich had seen him and called him over, inviting him into his office for some cookies that Elizabeta had sent. Arthur took the chair on the other side of Roderich's desk and set his crutches against the wall. Roderich sat down across from him and handed him a platter.

"How was your time in Chicago?" Roderich asked conversationally.

"You should know," Arthur chuckled, taking one of the cookies and examining it. "I've caused some trouble."

"Trouble that hasn't touched us. Your office has been fixed. It's waiting for you. You're just going to have to stay in the office for a few weeks, until your leg heals. How is it, by the way?"

"Missing some muscle. Scraped a bone or two. Nothing terribly serious."

"Your sarcasm needs some work."

"Sorry."

"No need to be." Roderich smiled slightly. "Take it easy from here on out. You'll be back to work in no time."

* * *

><p>Alfred's return to work was met with much fanfare. He was congratulated by everyone he passed, Elizabeta had made him cookies and invited him for dinner, and he felt as though all of his work had meant something. His article was waiting for the go ahead from Charles, and he had even added more on the drug trade story, which would accompany the trafficking story and bring out the connections. He had spoken briefly with Eduard, and though the man hadn't discovered the people he was looking for, he was hopeful. Especially when he found out that trade routes had been found and traced, and most (if not all) had gotten results.<p>

It was exciting, and Alfred was eager to start on his next job, though the boy was always a present thought in his head. He called Arthur a couple times to check in, but the Brit always snapped at him and told him to fuck off (though Alfred was pretty sure he didn't mean it; just a way to deal with the pain).

"I'm collecting on my offer."

Alfred looked up when Elizabeta perched herself on his desk, grinning down at him. "I said dinner when you got back, so you're coming over tonight. Roderich's inviting Arthur. Figure you guys could both use a night without work." She grinned at him, and he nodded.

"Sounds like fun," Alfred told her, and she beamed at him.

"Right! Now, you don't have to bring a thing! You have any requests for dinner? I know Arthur isn't a big fan of burgers, but he does like pasta, fish, things like that." Elizabeta continued on as Alfred thought, and in an hour's time they were finishing up editing some of the articles that were supposed to be published in the morning paper. Elizabeta had convinced him to give him a ride home (she said Roderich was using her car to pick up Arthur), and she seemed overly excited at riding in the convertible. Roderich apparently liked cars that didn't have a removable top.

In no time at all, Alfred found frying ground beef on her stove while she mixed ingredients for the casserole she was making, and they chatted back and forth. They would occasionally touch on Chicago, muse about when the articles could be released to the public, and wondered what was taking Roderich so long. Elizabeta left Al in the kitchen when she heard a car outside, and he could hear her talking to Roderich. She sounded excited, then her voice dropped suddenly. Alfred hummed and pulled the frying pan from the oven, and he looked back when Elizabeta entered with Roderich.

"Where's Arthur?"

"He can't make it," Elizabeta said, and Alfred thought she sounded a bit put out. She pulled the casserole dish from the oven and poured a can of sauce in with the meat, then mixed it and set them all on the table. Roderich had grabbed plates and silverware, and he set them down on the hardwood slowly, looking like he had smelled something rather vile.

Alfred waited for Elizabeta to sit before he did, and let her serve him instead of getting it himself. She seemed to be mulling over something, and she looked up at him. "Arthur quit his job."

Alfred almost dropped his fork. "What?"

"He said he was resigning, to keep the department clean." Roderich slowly speared a noodle with his fork. "Apparently, he didn't believe me when I told him that his trip to Chicago didn't mean anything to the force. If anything, he's more likable now."

Alfred chewed his food thoughtfully while Roderich paid attention to his meal, and he frowned. "Maybe I should talk to him tomorrow," he mused.

"His apartment's empty," Roderich told him. "I was going to talk to him, but he already moved out."

"Well, we'll have to call him later and say good-bye!" Elizabeta said quickly to lighten the atmosphere. "But first we'll finish eating, and then have dessert!"

"What'd you make this time?" Roderich asked, and Alfred looked across the table at him. Roderich looked proud for some reason.

"Apple pie!"

* * *

><p>London wasn't the worst place on earth, but it was far from the best. It had been a month since Arthur had shipped his things out and tossed his old cell phone, and he was beginning to suffer cabin fever.<p>

Oh, his mother had been livid. He had been fully intent on renting a flat somewhere, but she had insisted on him staying in his old room, and had practically forced him to remain in the house at all times until his leg healed. Of course, when she realized that he smoked, she extended his roaming range to the corner store down the street, _but only there_, and let him smoke in the garden.

It was better than nothing.

Even if he _did_ have to deal with Peter's surprise attacks every moment of the bleeding day.

The boy had turned insane since Arthur had left those years before. He ran around claiming that he would be the Prime Minister someday, then the leader of the free (enslaved-under-him) world. He had also insisted that someday Arthur would be his guinea pig, though considering the fact that Arthur could lift him by the collar and toss him out of the room with one hand, it wasn't likely.

He had been stuck in the house for a month when he heard the knocking at his door. He grumbled, wondering if he should leave Peter outside to rot (it was Peter's job to remember his keys, not Arthur's to let him in), then wandered to the door to look through the window. The action would infuriate the boy, he knew that much.

Except it wasn't the boy that was waiting outside the door. It was another man, taller, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a pout on his face while he watched the street. A man with bright blond hair, that was tinged with brown.

Arthur opened the door, and the man turned around to face him. His expression brightened, and he crossed his arms. "Long time no see!"

Arthur didn't return the greeting. He simply stepped aside and pushed the door open so that Alfred could enter, at the same time wondering if he could trip him with his cane and claim it was an accident. "What brings you to England?" Arthur asked when Alfred left the range of his cane, and he watched as the American ogled at the interior of the house.

"This place looks almost nice," Alfred said, and he grinned back at Arthur.

"Alfred. What are you doing here?"

Alfred apparently recognized the serious nature of Arthur's question, and he shoved his hands in his pockets. He mumbled something, and Arthur had to ask him to repeat it so that he could hear.

"Gilbert told me you went home, so I came to get you." Alfred looked to the side. "Cause, y'know, it's probably awkward here, since you ran away and all."

"Oh?" Arthur straightened his back and Alfred appeared to grow nervous. "And what else did Gilbert tell you?"

Alfred's eyes widened slightly. He clenched the fists in his pockets, aware that the topic of their discussion really wasn't something that Arthur wanted to hear. "Well, nothing, really-"

"Alfred."

"You ran away because your family beat on you, and Charles found you in the streets and took you in before you could get raped and he changed your life and took you under his wing and-"

"Has it ever occurred to you that Gilbert is a habitual liar?" Arthur cut in, and Alfred stopped with an intelligent "hur?" "My family has six children, including myself. Charles is my _uncle_. He offered to take me in to give my parents a break from the fighting and the stress. We made a deal in the very beginning that if I got in trouble, I returned home. And he wasn't to stick up for me. Ever. I was never _on the streets_, and anyone that says otherwise is a fucking liar."

Arthur waited for Alfred to respond, and he was slightly irked when the only thing that came from the other's mouth was a simple "Oh."

"Well, if that's all you came for, then-"

"I have another story," Alfred said before Arthur could turn him away. Arthur waited, and Alfred took it as a sign to continue. "We never found the boy."

"Right. They were all women."

"But there are places in the Middle East that might have him." Alfred had flushed with excitement as he spoke, and Arthur tilted his head curiously while he slowly sat down on a chair by the door. "Charles was talking to me the other day. American troops are going to break the places up, and I'm going to go in and try to help the people inside. That journalist from before it coming with me, too."

"That's great, Alfred-"

"And after, I'll publish all of the stories. The drugs and everything!"

"I'm glad-"

"I want you to come with me."

Neither spoke. Alfred was breathing quickly, nervously as he watched Arthur's expression turn into one of shock and confusion. Arthur didn't move. He stared at the slightly taller American, and his lips twisted into a scowl.

"What are you going on about now?"

Alfred had expected that. He had rehearsed the lines again and again until they sounded right in his head, but saying them to Arthur was another thing entirely. "Chicago was hard. Really hard. I mean, it was fast, but really really hard." Already, he was messing up what he was supposed to say, and Arthur was looking at him like he had grown another head. "Having you there was pretty cool," he admitted. "I mean, the whole shooting part was totally bad, but you're a cool guy to be around, even if you _are_ like a crotchety old man." Arthur glared. Was he _trying_ to insult him? "I'd feel better if you came with me. It just feels right that way. Not really awkward. I don't know."

Arthur sighed. "You want me to join you in the Middle East, bum leg and all. _Are you completely-_"

"You're between jobs right now, right? What's so important that you can't drop it for a trip to the Middle East?"

"I don't think I should even dignify that with an answer," Arthur grumbled.

Alfred leaned back against the door, and the room fell silent. Neither had anything to say to the other; they were both thinking about what they were supposed to be doing, what had happened, and what would likely happen if Alfred got his way.

"Please?" Alfred asked, and Arthur frowned at him. In the short time he had known the man, he had learned that he didn't like to show humility. _Pleading_ with him to run across Asia wasn't something he had expected, yet he found it somewhat enjoyable.

"How long would we be there?"

Alfred brightened visibly, and Arthur was sure that the American realized that he was close to giving in. "Few months, give or take. As long as it takes to get the job done."

"I don't like not having a definite-"

"If you want to leave while we're there, you can leave. I promise."

Arthur sighed and rubbed his face with his hands, mumbling under his breath. "Mother's going to kill me," he told Alfred, but the American was too busy cheering internally to hear.

* * *

><p>"I do not like when others try to intrude."<p>

"Yes, Brother."

"It was better that way."

"I know, Brother."

The Russian and his sister were sitting at a small table. The sister watched her brother intently as he went through papers, glaring at them as though they had wronged him in some way.

"The Chinese pig will _not_ intrude on my business," he told her. "I don't care about women and children. But he stepped where not wanted."

"And he will pay," the girl told him. The bow in her hair bounced as she nodded her head vigorously.

"He is already paying," her brother told her, and his blue eyes (tinged with red) seemed to glow under his light hair. "His routes are destroyed. He will not sell drugs anymore."

His sister seemed to purr contentedly as she left the table and went to the old cupboards, opening one of the dark wooden doors. She revealed a large bottle, then returned to the table and set it down before him. "And we are happy?"

"We are happy," her brother confirmed, and he took the cork from the bottle and poured himself a glass.


End file.
